The Guilty: (P.I. Jack Marconi No. 3) Page 10

  I drank more of the coffee. It warmed my insides on a day that was already hotter than hell. I tried to back up a bit and think about this whole thing. I started from the start. With Harold Sanders. The slim, artistically dressed architect was convinced his future son-in-law did something bad enough to his daughter’s head it caused her to enter into a nearly irreversible coma. The kid then tried to cover up his wicked actions by enlisting his daddy to drive her to the hospital instead of calling 911 and bringing in a potentially lifesaving EMT.

  Now that Sanders had gotten nowhere with the cops, he’d entered into a civil lawsuit with the Davids. In turn, he’d hired me to dig up enough dirt on them both in order to win a settlement worth forty million. Unlike a lot of lawsuits in which the defendants don’t have a pot to piss in no matter the lawsuit amount, the Davids were richer than God. Should they lose the lawsuit, they would be forced to cut a check and the check would be a good check. Which meant Sanders was relying on me to do a good job. Heck, there might even be a five-figure bonus in it for me.

  But thus far, it looked as though the Davids were doing the job for me by just being themselves. Not only did I now possess some pictures of the kid seated beside a mirror full of coke and a mostly naked blonde bombshell with a snake tattoo on her neck inside his home, but I’d been chased by a goon in a black Lexus hatchback who took a shot at me. Then there was the rather threatening face-to-face with Mr. David Sr. while his wife, Penny, thought nothing of offering me her body just as she’d done with her stepson so many times before. Or so she claimed. She’d also revealed that little bit about Mrs. David Number One having died from a fall off a ladder while picking grapes under the backyard arbor. An accident that, in my mind and still tight gut, might not have been an accident at all. When I added it all up and combined it with the testimony from food blogger, Ted Bolous, about Junior’s nasty temper, the Davids were not exactly the Waltons.

  But still, none of this meant that Sarah simply hadn’t walked out the front door on a cold winter’s night, slipped on the ice, and fallen down the steps. Without some kind of solid proof of Junior having caused her to fall or some kind of evidence that proved he hit her over the head with something, Harold Sanders would be shit out of luck. So would the APD.

  I drank some more coffee.

  It tasted weak.

  I decided to add more Royale Crown to it.

  I tasted it again.

  That little bit of extra whiskey did the trick. Maybe the Coffee Royale was serving its purpose. Calming me down over one hell of a rough morning. But it wasn’t quieting the little noise inside my gut that was telling me I’d stepped into something that stank. What made the noise all the more disarming wasn’t the fact that I’d almost been killed this morning, or that I was uncovering information that would make it look as though the Davids were at least capable of killing someone. What bothered me most about the noise was the name it kept calling out.

  It was calling out the name of my client: Harold Sanders.

  24

  I STILL HAD AN hour to kill before I’d get my 4Runner back. I decided to spend that time productively, which meant I’d call Harold Sanders and more or less demand he meet me on Lark Street within the half-hour.

  I did it.

  He told me he was in the middle of a project meeting and asked me if it could wait. I told him I didn’t care if he was in a meeting with I.M. Pei and, no, it couldn’t wait. We agreed on a small Italian restaurant just around the corner from his Albany office and less than a mile from my warehouse.

  “What the hell,” I said. “You can buy me lunch.”

  “Shouldn’t you be buying me lunch with the money I’m paying you?”

  “I’m not that kind of business client, Mr. Sanders,” I said. “I’m a save-your-ass-and-make-you-a-lot-of-money-you-probably-don’t-really-need kind of client. See you in thirty.”

  The Italian restaurant I met him at was located on a State Street corner, directly across from the Albany Institute of History and Art. It was called Francesca’s, and it was a wood, two-story building that had been somebody’s home once. Perhaps Francesca herself. But now it housed around a dozen tables inside what used to be the place’s dining and living rooms. It was as close to a traditional, family-run Italian trattoria as Albany ever would see.

  We were the only customers having lunch that day, as though the owner opened up for us and us only. Francesca was a short, seventy-something, heavy-set woman, with thick black hair and a considerable bust. She wore a black dress as though in perpetual mourning for a now-dead husband whose framed portrait hung on the wall by the register.

  When she greeted us, I couldn’t help but notice her thick Italian accent. I asked her from which part of Italy she originated.

  “No Italy,” she answered sternly. “Sicily.” Then she looked at me for a brief moment or two, not with interest, but suspicion. That suspicion told me she wasn’t lying when she claimed Sicily as her home turf. I told her that my family originated from the mountainous Marche region along the Adriatic coast and she just glared at me for a moment more and shook her head. Italians from the south love to hate Italians from the north. And vice versa. It’s a never-ending war. For the purposes of lunch, however, I hoped we might find some common ground.

  Sanders and I were seated and handed our cardboard menus. There were only three main dishes available. One chicken, one meat, and one fish. Polo, carne, pesce. When Sanders chose the pesce and a glass of Chianti, I went with the meat and a Moretti beer. Made me feel tougher than he was. Which I was anyway. He was dressed all in black again, just like yesterday when I’d first met him. But he wasn’t wearing a jacket. Just black jeans and a black T-shirt that looked as though it’d been professionally pressed. His hair was perfect. Thick, long, gray, and artsy.

  Francesca brought our drinks and set out two small plates of insalata, one for each of us. In between the plates, she set a basket of fresh, sliced Italian bread.

  “So why the impromptu meeting?” he said, sipping his Chianti.

  I drank some Moretti beer. The cold aromatic beer felt good against the back of my dry throat.

  “I’ve discovered quite a bit about the Davids and I thought you should know about it,” I said. “Not the least of which is that they are very dangerous and that they believe you’re broke and that’s the real reason behind your suing them.”

  He smiled and shot me this squinty-eyed look as though to say I was being overly dramatic. He sipped more wine and set his glass back down.

  “Look, Mr. Marconi,” he said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin, “if this is your way of trying to get more money out of me, I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.” Shaking his head, disgusted. “Broke . . . Now that’s a good one indeed.”

  “I’m not trying to get more money out of you,” I said. “I’m trying to issue you a warning. A facts-of-life warning. This lawsuit you’ve initiated has begun to stir up the hornet’s nest. And I don’t like hornets. Hornets have stingers, and it hurts when they sting.”

  He ate some salad. The dressing was a simple virgin olive oil and red-wine vinaigrette.

  “I thought you were tougher than that, Mr. Marconi,” he said after he swallowed what was in his mouth.

  “My reputation precedes me,” I said. “But death awaits me, and I intend to put it off for a while if I can help it.”

  “Has your life been threatened in any way?”

  “You hear about the accident on the bypass bridge this morning?”

  “Traffic was tied up for miles,” he said. “You had something to do with that?”

  “One of David’s employees took a shot at me.”

  “Looked to me like he nearly got himself killed in the process.”

  “Turns out I’m a better driver than he is.” I ate some salad. It was delicious. Tangy and textural and cool. “I saved him from going over the side of the bridge only after he told me who he worked for. I also let him off with a warning. T
hat whoever comes after me again won’t live to tell about it.”

  “There’s the Keeper Marconi I hired.”

  I drank some beer. What I couldn’t get over was the fact that Sanders, all one-hundred-thirty artsy-fartsy pounds of him, seemed to be enjoying this exchange.

  Our pasta dishes arrived. A simple Spaghetti Pomodoro. I wrapped up a forkful and ate it. The pasta melted in my mouth. It was homemade.

  “Please give me the bottom line here, Mr. Marconi,” Sanders said. “Are you still willing to work for me? Or have the David boys scared you off? Maybe you think my checks are no good.”

  The architect knew how to press my buttons, and he was playing me like the keypad on an iPad.

  “I’m sticking with it,” I said, “because I honor my commitments. I also don’t think it will take very long to prove that the Davids are not exactly simple, law-abiding citizens. For one, Junior is a drug addict and, from what I’m told, a sex addict with an unusually violent temper. A devilishly violent temper, or so food blogger, Ted Bolous, tells me. The old man feels the need to hire security guards and goons who are willing to kill in order to keep him protected. But I’m sure you knew that already.”

  He drank some wine and I sipped some beer.

  “Actually,” he said, “that’s why I hired you.”

  “You telling me you had no idea what kind of family your daughter was getting mixed up with when she agreed to marry Junior?”

  He cocked his head.

  “It’s no secret around town that Junior won’t be up for a Boy Scout of the Year Award anytime soon,” he said. “But if what you’re telling me is correct—that he has a serious drug and sex problem as well as a history of violence—then that will only aid me in my cause.”

  “Indeed it will and I will write it all up in my report to you. But what I won’t be able to write up is precisely how he harmed your daughter. That is he did anything to harm her at all.”

  He set his fork down and wiped his mouth.

  “You have to believe that if I weren’t certain of foul play, I would never have entered into this lawsuit nor would I be wasting your time and my money, Mr. Marconi.”

  I finished my second plate just as the third plate arrived. It was a small sizzling steak with a side of roasted potatoes.

  “Here’s your bottom line,” I said. “How would you feel if I told you I know how to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that Junior did try and kill your daughter and that I can do so without having to produce a single shred of hard evidence?”

  He finished his second pasta plate and started in on his grilled pesce—head, tail, and all. Just as it would be served in Sicily.

  “You have my undivided attention.”

  I ate some steak. It was tender and hot and juicy.

  “In light of my little run-in with the goon this morning, I believe it’s only a matter of time until Junior feels like maybe he should try and kill your daughter again. Do it right this time.”

  He dropped his fork and sat up.

  “You really believe that?”

  I smiled.

  “It’s my job to believe such realities, Mr. Sanders. It’s also my job to issue you the necessary warnings.”

  “What do you suggest we do? My daughter is still slowly recovering. She’s not capable of taking care of herself much less protecting her life and limb. And, of course, I have my business dealings to contend with.”

  “Of course you do,” I said. “You’ll be relieved to know I’ve already alerted Detective Miller at the Albany Police Department, and he is sending out a protective detail to Valley View.”

  “That certainly comes as a relief.”

  “I’d like to interview Sarah after lunch. With your permission, of course.”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t you think she’s been through enough?” he said. “My wish is to keep my sweet angel out of this.”

  “Your angel is already major-league involved, and I need to get an idea of how much she remembers about the night of February 18th.”

  “She remembers nothing,” he said, drinking the rest of his wine, then holding up his empty glass for a refill.

  “According to Bolous’s blogs, Sarah seems to be recovering nicely and making progress every day. It only stands to reason that eventually she will regain her long-term memory. And when she does, it’s very possible she will recall precisely what happened that night.”

  “And if she does?”

  “She just might reveal the identity of the man who may have attempted to kill her. And that identity will more than likely match that of Robert David Jr.”

  “If that happens,” Sanders said as Francesca grumpily set a second glass of Chianti before him, “do you feel it’s possible Junior will try and have her killed in order to silence her?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I said, drinking the last of my beer.

  His face turned sickly pale, and he didn’t seem to have an appetite any longer.

  “Looks like your job description is about to change somewhat,” he said.

  I ate some steak.

  “From this point out,” he added, “I not only want you to prove Robert David Jr. is responsible for nearly killing my daughter, but I want you to protect her from it happening all over again.”

  25

  BY THE TIME I made it back on foot to my warehouse after lunch, my newly repaired 4Runner was parked up against the curb, awaiting my inspection. Not only had the front and back windshields been replaced, but Blood’s people even gave it a thorough wash and wax.

  “You like, Warden Marconi?” Blood asked as he approached on the sidewalk.

  “Superior job as usual,” I said watching the early afternoon sun glisten off the vehicle’s red hood.

  “I’ve made contact with some of my peeps,” he said. “By end of the night, I’ll know exactly what kind of shit Robert Jr. is doing and who he’s getting it from.”

  “Just add your service fee to my tab, Blood,” I said, opening the door and slipping inside the 4Runner. The leather seats were slippery with a new coating of Armor All silicone protection. “It’s got the new car smell all over again.”

  “I pay attention to details, Keep,” he smiled. “Topped off the tank for you too.”

  I closed the door, knowing that without a doubt, I would soon possess information that would prove Robert David Jr. to be a regular purchaser of illicit drugs. It wouldn’t prove he almost killed Sarah Levy. But it would bring me one step closer to proving he was fully capable of a real bad guy.

  Driving to Interstate 90, the highway that would take me west to Schenectady and Valley View Rehabilitation Center, I called Robert David Sr.’s office. His lovely assistant, Victoria, answered.

  “David Enterprises,” she said in her low-toned, sultry voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Are you free for a drink tonight?” I said.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’ll give you a hint. You once wore my donuts.”

  I heard her exhale.

  “What is it you want, Mr. Marconi?”

  “I’ve already told you. A drink sometime.”

  “I’m involved with someone, and even if I weren’t, I’m not exactly your type.”

  “And what type is that?”

  “Sophisticated comes to mind.”

  “Some women confuse me for James Bond. We both carry guns, you know. Danger is our middle name.”

  “Like I said, I’m busy.”

  “Would your big boss happen to be in?”

  “He’s busy too.”

  There was a little commotion in the background. Then I heard the sound of a palm being pressed down against the receiver. After a few seconds, Victoria came back on the line.

  “Hang on for one moment, please.”

  I was immediately put on hold. My port-mounted cell phone filled with the sound of Muzak. The Girl from Ipanema. I concentrated on the highway while I tapped out a rhythm to the music with my thumbs against the steering w
heel.

  Then David Sr. came on the line.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Marconi? I was under the impression our communication had come to an end.”

  “That’s because you tried to make my life come to an end. A very tragic and violent end, you might say. By the way, congrats on the new trophy wife.”

  I pictured him swallowing a rock.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And leave Penny out of this.”

  “How’s your goon feeling? He was pretty shaken up when I let him go free. I could have sent him over the side of that bridge. But I wanted him to face something worse than death. I wanted him to crawl back into the rat hole you all live in, and I wanted him to tell you he failed at disposing of me. You know, next time he tries to kill somebody by running them off the road, tell him not to use his gun. If he uses his gun to spray bullets all over the place, it won’t end up looking like an accident. It’ll look like murder in the first. In any case, all this bumping off business doesn’t bode well for your lawsuit defense now does it, Mr. David Sr.?”

  “I don’t employ goons as you say, but I do employ a crack team of brilliant young lawyers to handle my affairs including this silly case. And I would never do something as stupid as having you intentionally harmed.”

  “I could ask your first wife, Joan, if she might back up your statement, but . . .”

  “Why you cold-hearted son of a bitch.”

  “Cold ain’t the word for it,” I said, my eyes on the road, recognizing the exit I needed to take about a half mile up ahead. “Should the goon I let live this morning have been arrested and revealed who he worked for, he might have said a Mr. Robert David Jr. Which we both know is the same as him working for you since you cut all the checks. Oh, and the police are perfectly aware of all this. Just wanted to let you know that.”

  I hung up before he could get in another word edgewise. I stared at the phone mounted in its car dock for a while, thinking it was very possible that David would call me back. But he didn’t. I was almost disappointed that he didn’t as I turned onto the exit, paid my toll, and started making my way toward a very damaged Sarah Levy.