Sins of the Sons Read online

  I nodded. Sounded like an easy job. I’d done a ton of jobs like this before. All it required was my throwing a scare into someone, which worked most of the time. After that, I’d collect my money and be on my way. There were times, however, that no matter how much scare I put into someone they still went ahead and talked to the cops or the press or the cheating man’s wife or whatever. I still got to keep the money, but the client was never very happy about it. What this meant, of course, was that I had to warn Jim O’Connell that his plan, as well intended as it might be, could very well fail.

  “Listen, Jim,” I said, “you seem like a nice man. A responsible man. And I’m willing to take on the assignment. But I must be as upfront as possible about something. I can try and do all the convincing in the world short of breaking Mr. Long’s legs to keep his trap shut about the Marty Finnegan affair, and he might still sing to the cops. Either way, you still gotta pay me for my time. Capice?”

  He pursed his lips, stood, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a leather billfold.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d prefer to enter into a cash transaction.”

  “Non-traceable,” I said. “Good idea, counselor. That’s three-hundred per day plus expenses.”

  His eyes went squinty, his brow furrowed.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  I imagined that he made three-hundred per hour and billed multiple clients for that same hour’s work. I was in the wrong business but what the hell, at least the only person I had to answer to was myself.

  He pulled out nine, crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, set them on the desk.

  “A retainer,” he said. “If it should happen to take less than three days for you to complete your assignment, you may keep the balance as a bonus.”

  I stared at the pretty green. It warmed my heart almost as much as the Jameson.

  “Question,” I said. “What precisely do you want me to generate that will convince you Long isn’t gonna talk?”

  That’s when he reached into his coat again, this time producing an envelope. He set it on the desk beside the money.

  “That is a contract,” he said. “In exchange for Steve’s silence, I will be happy to pay him one-hundred-thousand dollars or, if he prefers, make a sizeable donation of an equal amount to his church. But one-hundred-thousand is a lot of money, and I wouldn’t want to just give it away right off the bat. We need to establish his true intentions first. The money should be offered as somewhat of a final resort.”

  I picked up the contract. It was sealed, so I couldn’t open it and read it. It felt heavy in my hand. One-hundred K heavy. I should have asked for a bigger retainer. Oh well.

  “So, the plan is . . . I follow Steve, maybe make my presence known after a while, that is I figure out he’s getting ready to call for a press conference or something like that. I have a nice little talk with him about how wrong it would be to do such a thing. I show him some muscle. Maybe bite the head off a live mouse right in front of him and let him know in a not so subtle way that I’m a crazy, badass motherfucker, and he’s about to get himself into some serious shit. Yet, if he persists, I then hand him the contract for his consideration.”

  O’Connell smiled again, his eyes bright under those round, expensive tortoise-shell eyeglasses.

  “You and I are most definitely on the same page, Keeper.”

  “Just one problem,” I said.

  “And that problem is?”

  “What happens when he refuses the money on moral grounds?”

  Pursing his lips, shoving both hands into his overcoat pockets. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Venice,” I said, setting the contract back down on the desk.

  “Venice,” he repeated like a question.

  “The Bridge of Sighs. It’s located in Venice. Do you know what it was used for?”

  He slowly shook his head. “A place where lovers could go to look out longingly at the Grand Canal.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “It’s a gateway to the old Venetian prison. Whenever the time came for a prisoner to cross it, he had no choice but to sigh, because it meant he was out of options. Good options, anyway.”

  “I get your meaning,” he said. “Would you happen to have a business card, Keeper?”

  I dug in my pocket, retrieved one, handed it to him across the desk.

  “Cell phone number is on there,” I said.

  “I’ll check in with you later,” he replied, turning for the open door. “For the time being, I’m staying in one of the apartments at the Fort Orange Club until I can be assured this crisis has abated.”

  Just before he stepped out the door, I called out to him one last time.

  He stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.

  “Like I said, Jim, I’m not an assassin. Once we run out of options, we run out of options. Bridges or no bridges.”

  “I get your meaning,” he said with an anxious grin. “I’m not immune to metaphors.”

  The middle-aged preppy walked out.

  This gumshoe grabbed the cash, stuffed it in his pocket.

  Chapter 3

  Standing, I turned and looked out the window. I gazed down at the street corner directly in front of my Sherman Street building. O’Connell had arrived here in a big black four-door Lincoln town car. His barrel-chested driver opened the rear car door for him, then closed it after he slipped inside. O’Connell was made of money, of that, I had no doubt.

  After they pulled away from the corner, I thought about pouring another drink and resuming my pity party along with the cold, drab city. Then I thought the better decision would be to pay Detective Miller a visit at the APD Central Avenue precinct. Miller had recommended a client to me—one I did not trust. A client who might very well hold the key to a cold case murder that took place thirty-five years ago.

  Dressed in my leather coat, my two-pound Colt .45 pressing against my left rib cage, I drove my old fire engine red Toyota 4-Runner west along Central Avenue, passing the many four and five-story brick and wood clapboard buildings. Albany was a gray place in Winter. Thick clouds hovered over the entire city beginning in December and did not lift until May Day. Maybe because the city was nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains.

  It was also a place that housed a lot of state workers with Albany being the capital of the Empire State. It meant the standard of living was strictly middle-class and the voting machine was strictly Democrat—or else. Back in the old days—say the 1930s, 40s, and 50s—it was not uncommon for a mouthy Republican political challenger to go missing only to have his remains turn up inside his car in the middle of Washington Park, the back of his skull blown out by a shotgun blast, the victim of an “apparent suicide.”

  Case fucking closed.

  But still, Albany was my home, and I would die here, while Val would move to Palm Beach, Florida with her new man. Her philosophy professor from old money who would treat Val with all the tender loving care she craved.

  The .45 weighing heavily against my ribs, and the aroma of my leather coat pulled me to the present. I pictured the nine-hundred in my pocket, and I drove toward the old police station knowing Val and I would never be together again. It was a reality I had to get used to. A reality that hurt like a gunshot to the gut. But then, even that wound could heal if treated right away. How did you treat my particular wound? You got your life together, and you put one foot in front of the other, and you went to back work. You worked your ass off so that when you hit the sheets at night, you fell into a deep sleep from exhaustion, rather than stare up at the ceiling picturing the woman you can’t have and imagining her in the arms of another man.

  The Central Avenue APD Precinct was located in a late eighteen hundreds, six-story red brick building that had been renovated a couple of times. I parked in a visitor’s space and got out. Heading up the concrete steps, I made my way through the front doors and into a brightly lit vestibule. A heavy-set, middle-aged, clean shaven sergeant was seated behind a Plexiglas enclosure. His gut filled out his blue uniform shirt like pizza dough inside a plastic baggy, and it spilled out over his black utility belt. A pair of reading glasses hung against his chest by a leather lanyard that was nearly the color of his graying hair.

  “Well, look who’s here,” he said, giving me a grin. “It’s rent-a-cop Marconi.”

  “Oh, crap,” I said. “I forgot to bring donuts.” Making a thumb-over-my-shoulder gesture. “You want I should go get a box for you, Dave?”

  “Cops and donuts,” Dave said. “Original.” Then, “So, how shall I be of service today?”

  “Need a face-to-face with Miller,” I revealed.

  “Not sure he’s in.”

  “Well, maybe you can find out. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “I guess I can try,” Dave offered.

  Dave and I went way back, having attended the same grade school. We’d even played Little League baseball and Pop Warner football together. He was one of the good guys, but we still liked to give one another a tough time. Made the day go by just a little bit faster. He buzzed Miller’s office, told the chief homicide detective I was waiting to see him.

  “The big guy will see you now,” Dave said, hanging up the phone and punching a button to unlock the metal door that would grant me access to the main booking room. “Don’t forget those donuts next time, or I’ll tell everyone about the time you peed your pants in Sister Theresa’s classroom back in the first grade.”

  “You remember that shit?” I said.

  “I remember everything, old buddy,” he said smirking.

  “Did I cry after I peed myself?”

  “Actually, I think you laughed.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now, I don’t feel so bad.”

  I
pushed the door open and entered the bowels of the APD.

  The Chief Homicide Detective’s office was located way in the back on the first floor and accessed by a brightly lit corridor. Despite his seniority in the department and his all-around expertise, Nick Miller’s office was on the small side. The only window to be found was embedded in the metal office door itself. I opened the door, stuck my head inside.

  “Busy?” I said.

  “Just playing poker on my phone,” he lied. “I’m sick of all that protecting and serving.”

  He waved for me to come in then told me to take a seat.

  “I’ll stand,” I said.

  “Always the tough guy,” he said and crossed his arms over his chest. “Heard about you and Val. Sorry to have heard it, I should say.”

  A pang punctured my heart when he said Val’s name.

  “Word travels fast. This is Smalbany after all.”

  “Thought for sure this time you two would stick, and that would be that.”

  “We’ve tried three times. Three strikes and . . .”

  “I get it,” he said. “The life, she goes on.”

  He might have made a comment about there being lots of fish in the sea, but maybe he didn’t because even he doesn’t date—being a widower who lost his wife on the operating table a number of years ago. He once told me that his love for his wife was bigger than death, that it would be unfair to bring another woman into his world. Now, that’s what I call commitment.

  Miller was a tall guy. Tall, wiry, athletic, and he took pride in his appearance. His short cut hair was white like fresh snow. The sleeves on his white button down were rolled up to the elbows while his charcoal jacket hung on a hangar on the hat rack Next to his Burberry trench coat.

  “Jim O’Connell,” he said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll be happy to reveal why I’m here as soon as you offer me a drink.”

  Without a word, he opened the bottom right-hand drawer on his metal desk, produced a bottle of Jack Daniels and two drinking glasses. I’d been drinking Jameson for most of the morning, so a little Jack might be a nice switch up. He poured me a couple of fingers, set the glass on the edge of the desk, and poured himself an equal amount.

  Raising his glass. “So, what shall we drink to?”

  “Freedom,” I said. “I’m now free to do whatever I want and when I want to do it.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Miller said.

  We drank. I placed my glass down on the desk and sat down in the chair, defeated.

  “Then why do I feel so fucking bad?” I said.

  Miller poured me another shot. I let this one sit for a bit before I attacked it.

  “It’ll pass,” Miller said. “You’re stung. Give it time, Keep.”

  “Speaking of time,” I said. “This guy you sent my way. Jim O’Connell. He’s got quite the story that goes back a hell of a long time. He tell you about it?”

  Miller poured himself a second shot, capped the bottle. He too would let it sit for a while.

  “He contacted me, in person, asked me if I could recommend a good PI. Naturally, you came to mind.”

  “Why not Moonlight or Jobz? They’re good.”

  “I consider you the senior professional. There’s a pecking order among my subcontracted private investigative professionals. It goes: Marconi, Moonlight, and Jobz.”

  “In that order?”

  “In that pecking order.”

  He sipped his drink. I did the same.

  “I don’t know if the pecking order makes me feel good, or if it makes me feel old.”

  The detective opened his top drawer, pulled out a manila folder that, judging from its frayed edges and faded color, looked like it’d been around a while. Written in blue ballpoint was the name Marty Finnegan. Beside that, the word COLD was penned in big bold letters.

  “When I asked O’Connell why he wished to seek out a PI, he said he needed to have someone followed for a while. Tailed. I automatically assumed he suspected his wife was cheating on him with someone. But then, something else happened.”

  “He started poking around,” I said, stealing another sip of the whiskey. It was going down smoothly, its magic warm and soothing. “He inquired about Marty Finnegan, didn’t he? Directly, I mean.”

  He nodded.

  “He tried to do it as a sort of off the cuff, casual thing. You know, like something that suddenly popped into his head before he left the office. He asked me if they ever found out who killed Marty Finnegan. I, in turn, asked the lawyer how he recalled that name after all these years. He revealed that he and his buddies saw him on the night he died. Saw him arguing with his girlfriend, Tracy Reynolds. They’d been partying on the eighteenth green at the Wolforts Roost Country Club.”

  “He told me all that and more,” I said. “A lot more.”

  “In confidence?”

  “I don’t necessarily abide by client/PI privilege when it comes to matters of murder. Or potential murder, anyway.”

  Stealing another sip of whiskey, I then told the old detective O’Connell’s full story. He sat back in his swivel chair and drank some more whiskey.

  Leaning up, he said, “He’s willing to pay that much to get this guy, Long, to shut up?”

  “I have the contract in my pocket. I also took his retainer.”

  He bit down on his bottom lip, then flipped open the file.

  “Marty Finnegan,” he said. “Prominent real estate lawyer found dead in a patch of woods off Rosendale and River Roads. But get this, his car, a black Mercedes, was parked in the third level of the long-term parking garage at the Albany Airport. That’s a span of five miles.”

  “Maybe he just wanted to take a long, long walk,” I said.

  “First of all, the Niskayuna Police report states that the night he went missing the temperature went down into the teens. Second of all, Finnegan wasn’t exactly the type to engage in a nature walk, much less a five-mile hike. He was out of shape and had a bad ticker. The cops also found an empty pint of vodka on him. According to his friends at the country club, Finnegan wasn’t a vodka drinker. When he drank, it was Scotch or nothing.”

  “You seem real familiar with the report, Miller.”

  “APD did some sniffing of their own way back when since, one, the deceased’s car was located in a property managed and maintained by Albany County; and, two, the last time anyone had seen or heard from Finnegan was at a country club also located in Albany County. In fact, I was a young, junior detective at the time.”

  I drank the rest of my whiskey, set the glass down in a manner that indicated I was done for now.

  I said, “So, you personally worked the case.” A question.

  He nodded, finished his drink, and also set his glass down like he was done as well. Woe, the man who cannot control his urge to booze it up. The slope, she is a slippery one.

  “I’m gonna be honest,” he said. “I remember this case like it happened yesterday, and we . . . me . . . I always thought the Niskayuna cops botched this one from the get-go.”

  “How?”

  “They set their sights on Finnigan dying of natural causes and left it at that. It was almost like they didn’t want to find the truth.” Shrugging his shoulders. “Or they were too lazy. Shit, maybe they didn’t have the resources like the APD had. Nisky is fucking small. I don’t think they maintain a support staff with even a half a dozen plain-clothes detectives. Usually, something big happens, they call in the Schenectady PD or the staties.”

  “It’s not like sleepy Niskayuna is a hotbed of crime,” I said, referring to the small suburban hamlet where the great General Electric Company not only ruled the downtown landscape with its giant neon logo, it once employed just about every breadwinner in the county. “Sounds more like they fucked up the crime scene and didn’t want to admit it.”

  “It was thirty-five years ago,” Miller said, “but I recall how the Nisky cops walked all over the scene, dropped their cigarette butts, didn’t use rubber gloves. In a word, Keeper, they shit all over the scene and then just called it a case of death by natural causes.” He threw up his hands. “You know, distraught middle-aged dude with a bad heart goes out for a walk in the freezing cold in the woods without a jacket or coat on. He’s got a bottle of booze shoved in his pocket, and his ride is parked five miles away at the airport. Witnesses reported he and Tracy had a bitter argument outside the country club dining room.”