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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
September 16, 1996
Monday noon-ish
B y the time I found The Clock Diner a second time it was close to noon. I was hungry and I had an idea I wanted to pursue. I came back to The Clock Diner since it hadn’t been half bad and I kind of remembered where it was. I was able to snag the very last booth next to the bathroom and the pay phone. I ordered coffee, since I hadn’t had enough, and the lumberjack breakfast with eggs over easy and bacon. I loved places that served breakfast all day. When the rather sullen waitress walked away, I got up to use the pay phone.
Using the phone book that was attached to the pay phone, I found the number for Luca’s Lifters and dialed it. I wasn’t expecting an answer, so I wasn’t surprised when an answering machine picked up. I was a little surprised when Joanne told me no one was available to take my call and I should call back during regular business hours. I was calling during regular business hours, but you can’t exactly argue with a machine.
The phone call did tell me one thing: The whole operation was fake. Luca hadn’t even bothered to hire a fake receptionist to answer the phone and tell people they were too busy to do their move. They probably just never called anyone back.
I stood there a moment, thinking about how he worked it. There had to be trucks somewhere, possibly not even operational, and he had to spend some time filling out invoices and then “paying” them in cash. That would be how he was laundering the money he got from whatever small piece of Big John’s business belonged to him.
Using my calling card, I placed another call. It was about nine-fifteen in California.
“Freedom Agenda,” Karen said when she answered.
“It’s Dom.”
“I’ll get Lydia.”
“Actually—”
“Actually, you have a favor to ask.”
“I do.”
With a well-practiced sigh, she said, “Go ahead.”
“I need to find a small-time thug connected to the Detroit Partnership who died sometime after 1982.”
“What’s his name?”
“That’s the part I need.”
“You know that’s not how a Boolean search works?”
I didn’t completely know what that meant, but I got the gist. “Do you think you can do it in the next hour? I don’t have my mobile phone with me. I’m at a diner.”
That was met by a very chilly silence. I went ahead and gave her the number on the pay phone.
“This isn’t connected to one of our cases, is it?”
“No.”
“I’ll have to ask Lydia.”
“Is she there?”
“Hold on.”
A few moments later, Lydia picked up. “What happened to you?”
“I have some things to take care of.”
“Who was that kid?”
“Uh… well, in a way he’s my son.”
“In a way?”
“A nonbiological way. His name is Cassidy Reilly.”
“Oh. Oh my God! Where are you?”
“Detroit.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Maybe I’ll come home tonight. It depends.”
“Do you need anything from me?”
“Actually, I need Karen to?—”
“She’s already on it. Though it doesn’t make much sense.”
My breakfast/lunch arrived and I was about to say good-bye when I remembered something. “Hey, do you know what alprazolam is?”
“Xanax. My doctor gave me some after the shooting. It’s for anxiety.”
A few months before, when I’d shot a man in the lobby of our offices Lydia had taken the blame. I could see how that might make her anxious. Joanne on the other hand was one of the least anxious people I’ve ever met. She was either taking the drugs recreationally or they were working very well. I thanked her and said good-bye. Then I sat down in the booth and dug into my breakfast. It was perfect.
Long after I’d finished breakfast, around my fourth cup of coffee, the pay phone rang. I got up and answered. Not bothering with hello, Karen said, “Vito Giancarlo. Twenty-eight at the time of his death in 1986. A couple years before, he was contracted to put a bomb in this guy’s car. It didn’t go off so he got caught. He turned on his boss, a guy named Ferretti. Which resulted in his getting stuck with a shiv in Marquette prison.”
“Perfect.”
“You owe me.”
“I know. I won’t forget.”
After I hung up, I paid my bill, adding a large tip for sitting at the table for so long. Then went out to the car and drove to Top Dog Collections. When I walked in, Claudia was sitting at the desk. She had earphones in her ears listening to a Discman as she typed. From the sound leaking out I think it was Luther Vandross. As soon as she saw me, her eyes widened and she shook her head a little.
Pulling out one of the earphones, she said, “Good afternoon, how can I help you, sir?”
“I’m here to see Ms. Di Stefano.”
Claudia stood, smoothed her skirt, which had wrinkled around the hips, and led me over to Joanne’s office. “Gentleman here to see you,” she said before getting out of my way.
Joanne took one look at me, and said, “Come in and shut the door.” As soon as I had, she hissed, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The office was just as it had been the day before, except there was an expensive purse on the credenza and the purple leather coat on a coatrack. She hadn’t lied when she said she wanted to wear it more often. Probably one of the few truthful things she’d said to me.
I sat down casually. “So this is the deal I have with your son. If I find out who killed his dad then I get to keep using his identity.”
“Why would he make a deal like that?”
“He says he’s going to kill that person when I find them.”
After a moment of silence, she said, “That doesn’t work for me.”
“No, I don’t imagine it would.”
And that was as close as we came to acknowledging the fact that she’d killed her husband. Normally, I’d be a lot more interested in seeing a killer get what they deserve, particularly in a situation like this one where I couldn’t see that the real Dom Reilly deserved what he got. The problem was, I didn’t want to see Cass in prison for killing his mother. Or anyone else for that matter.
“I have a solution. I did some research and there was a guy named Vito Giancarlo who admitted to placing a bomb in someone’s car around 1984. He flipped on the people who ordered the hit. He wasn’t in prison long before he got knifed with a sharpened toothbrush. So he’s dead.”
“I might have heard something about that. Vito was a friend of a friend. So what?”
“Last night you said someone told you Dominick was killed accidentally but you wouldn’t say by who. Tell the kid you made a couple of calls and found out it was Vito. That Vito killed his dad. And that’ll be the end of it.”
“And you get to go home and keep being Dominick Reilly.”
“Exactly.”
“What do I get out of it?”
“Uh… your son doesn’t murder you and you stay out of prison. That should be enough.”
“Except it’s not.” She pushed away from the desk and crossed her legs, then continued, “Cass tells me you went to see Suzie Reilly. That house belonged to her parents. They left it to Suzie and Dominick. That means half the house belongs to you; technically. I want you to sign it over to me.”
“Suzie knows I’m not her brother.”
“And you’re leaving town and never coming back. We’ll do it all via the mail.”
“Still, I don’t think I can stand up to that level of scrutiny. You know how fragile a fake identity can be.”
“You don’t need to worry about it. Tony will handle the details.”
“Tony?”
“Short for Anton. Mr. Cray. My boss.”
There was no way I was going to go along with this. For one thing, it was mean. For another, I didn’t think it would work.
“I keep hearing it was your cousin Luca who killed your husband. And that you asked him to.”
“Who says that? I’ll kill them!”
“You might want to remove murder from your repertoire. It’s not working out well.”
There was a tapping on the door, then it opened. Mr. Cray stepped in. He was in his late fifties, small and wiry with hard black eyes and a full head of white hair. He’d probably been very handsome when he was younger. Now he was distinguished.
“Is everything all right, Joanne?”
“Everything’s fine, Tony. Thanks for checking in.”
He didn’t move. Instead, he waited for me to say something. “I’m a friend of Joanne’s son.”
I don’t think he liked that much.
“I’ll explain later,” Joanne told him. In other words, she needed some time to make up a lie.
“If you need me, I’m right next door.”
“You’re a doll.”
Reluctantly, he shut the door. As soon as it was closed, Joanne said, “We should talk about getting a divorce.”
“Actually I’m surprised you didn’t try to have me declared dead.”
“I had my reasons.”
Which might have to do with the credit cards she took out in my name. Or rather Dominick’s name.
“I ran your credit this morning. You have assets.”
“Don’t even think it.”
I saw red for a moment but then calmed. I’d seen her assets. Most of my assets were in Ronnie’s name. Only the co-op had my name on it—well, half of it. All told, my assets amounted to around fifty thousand dollars. As I recalled, her assets were at least double that.
“And of course there’s thirteen years of child support,” she added.
“I’ll get a DNA test. Prove he’s not my kid.”
“Fine. Just your assets then.”
“You have assets, too. Which I would be just as entitled to. In fact you have more assets than I do. So you’d owe me money. Except…” I left a deliberately long pause. “…your assets stem from fraud or embezzlement, I’m not sure which exactly. It would be a terrible thing if that came out during a divorce.”
Her face fell for a moment but then quickly recovered. She got up, walked a couple of steps to a credenza and turned a radio on to a classical station. She looked unnerved. She’d had no idea I knew all that. She was stalling to catch her balance.
“Don’t forget I can expose you.”
“I haven’t forgotten. How about we skip mutually assured destruction and each keep what we have?”
Unhappily, she agreed. I didn’t believe her for a moment.
“You’re still young,” I pointed out. “I’m sure you can find a man with more assets than I have. Provided they don’t find out who you really are.”
A light went off behind her eyes. She’d heard exactly what I wanted her to hear. If she fucked with me, I’d fuck with her. And not just now. Always. I was taking a risk and I knew it.
“Well, I guess we’re just going to have to be friends.”
“Or something like it.”
We went over the plan one more time. She’d reluctantly tell Cass that she’d found out Vito Giancarlo killed his father. She’d refuse to say who gave her this information for safety reasons. I was hoping he’d buy it.
After I left, I drove around until I saw a pay phone on the side of a 7-Eleven—a different one, not my home away from home. I pulled in, got out my calling card, and then sat in the car for a good ten minutes.
Joanne Di Stefano was a piece of work. I didn’t have any reason to think she’d keep her end of any bargain. Yeah, I thought she’d go along with the story I wanted to tell Cass about Vito Giancarlo. It fit her purposes. For now. But who knew about next month or next year or the year after that.
I got out of the car and called Ronnie on his cellular.
“Hello.”
“It’s me.”
“You haven’t called in two days.”
“I wanted to wait until I knew when I’d be coming home.”
“No. You call me every day. I don’t care if you have nothing to say. I just need to hear your voice.”
“I’m coming home. Maybe later tonight. Probably not until tomorrow.”
“You mean home as in Long Beach. You are home right now, aren’t you?”
It took a moment for the penny to drop. “Oh. You mean Detroit. It’s not my home anymore.”
“I called the credit card company. I’ve been following you all along.”
“I’ve spent a lot of money. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you.”
“You don’t have to do that. Financially, you’ve more than held up your end. I don’t begrudge you the money.”
“But…”
“I hate not knowing where you are. And I hate sleeping alone. The silence is terrible.”
The ‘silence’ was a reference to my snoring, which, given the number of times I’d had my nose broken, was quite impressive.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Detroit. We established that.”
“I mean exactly. I hear traffic. It sounds like you’re outside.”
“I’m on a pay phone in front of a 7-Eleven.”
“That’s romantic.”
“Not really.”
“Don’t you remember? The night we met we sat in your car outside a 7-Eleven having coffee and donuts. It was like three or four in the morning.”
“I do remember. Of course, I remember. We got chased off. Right after I told you I’d killed a man.”
“See. I told it was romantic. Have you killed anyone since you got to Detroit?”
“No. I’ve been tempted though.”
“How is the kid? He’s not gay is he?”
“No. He has a Pavlovian response to attractive young women.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In my car, waiting for clients. They’re late. The house is one point two million though, so if they buy it I’ll forgive them.”
I did some quick math and his commission on that price would be close to forty thousand dollars, which might be another reason he wasn’t too concerned about my spending.