A Bullet for Carlos (42 page)

Tip’s scar twitched into the mean position. “We shoot him.”

Oh shit.

Chapter 51

Connie’s Date

T
uesday morning flew by. I could barely keep my mind on work. We hadn’t gotten any decent leads on the jogger, and nothing new had come up from Mena’s murder. To top it off, Tip had been hounding me all day about the meeting with Maxwell. He kept saying it was all right, but I saw it differently. I didn’t like going out with Maxwell and I didn’t like what we planned for Carlos. Both things were eating at me. A few minutes before 11:00, I called.

“Maxwell Building, may I help you?”

I could almost see the stiff, proper young admin sitting at a large mahogany desk. “Jeff Maxwell please.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Connie Gianelli.”

“One moment please.”

I was on hold for what seemed like an interminable amount of time before the admin came back on. “Ms. Gianelli, hold on please. I’ll connect you.”

After a few clicks on the phone, he answered. “Connie, so good to hear your voice. What can I do for you?”

What can I do for you?
Now he had me curious. “You asked me to call you…on Tuesday. You did say Tuesday, didn’t you?”

A long silence followed, then. “Oh my God, I forgot.” Another pause, then. “Listen, I’ve got something I can’t get out of. Can I give you a rain check on this?”

What kind of game is this guy playing?
“A rain check? Sure. How about—”

“Tell you what,” he said. “Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

I thought for a moment, as if I had a busy calendar. “Sure, most anytime is good. Give me a call on my cell.” I gave him the number, said goodbye and hung up.

I got up and walked to the coffee room, pissed off.
Imagine that bastard telling me to call him and then
forgetting
that he even told me.

“Gianelli, where have you been?”

I turned to see Tip half running to meet me. “What’s up?”

“You set with Maxwell?”

I pursed my lips and narrowed my eyes. “Thank God, no. But do you know what that son-of-a-bitch did? He canceled our lunch.”

“Did you set another time?” Tip asked, unfazed by my situation.

The significance seemed to escape Tip.
Damn men didn’t understand anything.

“Yes, of course, but that’s not the point.” I was about to go into an explanation when I saw on Tip’s face it was useless. He really wouldn’t understand; instead, I said, “He’s gonna call.”

“Okay, good, because something’s not right about him. He’s covering up for Carlos, and it might have something to do with that club.”

I thought about what Tip said. “You think he’s involved with laundering for Carlos?”

“Somebody’s gotta do it, and Maxwell has the resources.”

I nodded. “That would explain a lot.”

“I asked some people to check into that,” Tip said, “And about Carlos, I had an idea.”

“What?”

“I think I know how that weasel Carlos did it.”

I looked around, then whispered. “I thought we agreed that he didn’t do it.”

“We don’t know that, but more importantly, it’s what he can prove he
didn’t
do that matters.”

I scratched my head. “I don’t remember that being the way the justice system works.”

“You didn’t learn in Texas, cowgirl.”

“Okay, enough of the cowboy talk. What have you got?”

“Come on, we’re taking my car. I’ll tell you on the way.”

Chapter 52

Trapping Wild Boars

I
climbed into the passenger seat and strapped in. “What’s the scoop?”

“I got to thinking about when we talked to Manuelo the other day, and I believe I found some holes in his story.”

“So where are we going, to Carlos’ house?”

“No, to Manuelo’s other work. I don’t want Carlos to see us with him.”

In fifteen minutes we were at the accounting firm of Biddle and Ferns, standing in front of yet another receptionist with a thick Texas accent and an apple-pie smile. As I thought about it, I almost laughed. Of course she had a Texas accent, if we were in Brooklyn the receptionist would have a Brooklyn accent, no smile, and likely tell everyone who smiled at her to go to hell.

In less time than it takes to say southern drawl, Manuelo appeared out of an elevator, looking nervous. “May I help you, Detectives?”

“We’ve got a couple of questions for you,” Tip said.

“I thought we went through this the other day, Detective.”

“We went through some of it,” Tip said.

Manuelo tugged at the cuffs on his starched-white shirt, avoiding eye contact. “What do you need to know?”

I thought I’d try and break the ice with Manuelo. “I see they don’t go in for casual dress here.”

Manuelo glanced quickly to his left, then back. “This
is
Biddle and Ferns,” he said, with a whisper.

“Who else lives at the house?” Tip asked.

“If you mean at Señor Cortes’ house…there is Tico, Roberto, Paco and Chaparrito, plus a servant—the one who answered the door the day you came. And on weekends I stay there.”

“And Saturday night, you said Carlos came in at…”

Tip was beating around the bush. I wished he’d just get to the heart of it.

Manuelo smiled. “I have a very good memory, Detective. I said 2:42. I still remember it because of the numbers.”

“Okay, 2:42.” Tip continued writing.

“Manuelo, did you actually
see
Mr. Cortes come in?” I asked, and looked right at him.

Manuelo took some time, as if he were searching his mind for the answer, then said, “Now that you mention it, I didn’t. I assumed it was Señor Cortes, but all I heard was the door open and the elevator kick on.”

Manuelo surprised me with that. I expected him to lie. “Thanks.”

Tip asked a few more questions, then before leaving, he said, “And don’t tell Carlos we talked with you again.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Tip handed a card to Manuelo. “If you think of anything else, call us.”

He looked at the card. Everyone seemed to do that, look at a card when you hand it to them, as if something magical will pop out of it. “I will,” he said, and placed the card in his pocket.

As we exited the building, Tip was smiling. “So, Carlos could have come home, made some noise so Manuelo would hear, then gone back out and made the phone call, giving himself an alibi…if we pegged the caller for the killer.”

“Exactly.”

“What have we got on him, Connie. Let’s add it up.”

I listed each one on my fingers: “Semen, prints, access, motive, no alibi. That enough?”

“Let’s go get us a pig,” Tip said.

“He’s not going to like this.”

“Not at all.”

Twenty minutes later Tip pulled into the station. “Let’s go over everything again. I don’t want some technicality screwing us up.”

Inside the station, we went back through the file. “It doesn’t make sense that Carlos did this. And there is the timeline problem. Even if Manuelo can’t swear it was Carlos who came in, a good lawyer will convince enough jurors that it
could
have been him. And you know he’ll have a good lawyer.”

Tip pulled out the notes on the interviews. “We need to check
this
timeline again,” he said, and handed half the files to me. “Both of the men at the charity event say he left between midnight and 1:00, but neither one of them would hold up under cross examination.”

“But their old biddy wives both swore it was right around 12:45, and they seemed pretty positive about it. I can’t see anybody breaking their stance on that. They had a story to go with it, which makes it believable.”

“Remind me of the story,” Tip said.

I leafed through more papers. “They said it was unusual for Carlos to leave so early, and it surprised them. One of them said she knew because she had seen him say goodbye to Virginia at the door, then he came back to say goodbye to her. And he always kissed her on the right cheek.”

“Then we have Manuelo saying, he
thinks
Carlos came home at 2:42.”

“I agree, Tip, but we can tear that apart, about him thinking it was Carlos. The problem is the rest of the people in the house swear they were asleep—according to Bobby’s interview with them—and Manuelo will swear that
someone
came in at 2:42. And, like the ladies, his story about the time will hold water, especially the way he tells it.”

“Then there are the Maxwells, who left around 2:15,” Tip said, but then his brow wrinkled and he started rifling through the papers. When he finished with his, he asked me for the interviews with the ladies.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Hang on.” He read some more, flipping through the papers until he finished. “This might be nothing, but look…one of the ladies, I think her name was Florence, says Carlos said goodbye to Virginia at the door then came back to say goodbye to her.”

“We already know that. So?”

“It almost sounds like Virginia was leaving.”

“I took it that she was standing at the door, saying goodnight.”

“But would she be? Not everyone was leaving then. In fact, they were surprised that Carlos was leaving, so why would she be at the door?”

“What difference does it make? It doesn’t affect the time Carlos left.”

Tip stared at the wall, thinking. “No, but I don’t like to be misled.” He opened the main folder, searching. “We never talked to Virginia did we?”

“No, just Jeff.”

“Give me his interview.”

I handed him the report. “He swears Carlos left at 1:45, or even a little later,” Tip said. As Tip continued on, with me reading over his shoulder, he found what he was searching for. “And here, he says ‘we’ left at 2:15.”

“So there it is, he and Virginia left at 2:15.”

Tip looked puzzled. “Get that lady on the phone, the one who mentioned Virginia.”

My blood was racing. I loved closing in on something.

I got off the phone several minutes later. “She said Virginia Maxwell left before Carlos.”

Tip slammed his fist onto the desk. “Goddamnit, I told you.”

“I like where we’re going with this, Tip, and I admit something’s wrong, but what difference does it make? Jeff Maxwell didn’t do it for Christ’s sake.”

“He lied to us, Connie.
Why
would he lie to us?”

“Maybe he said it as a slip of the tongue, a—”

“That guy doesn’t say anything as a slip of the tongue.” Tip hollered to Betty, sitting near the doorway. “Betty, can you get me some coffee, please?” After she got up, he turned back to me. “He’s guilty of
something
. I don’t know what, but he lied to us for a reason.”

Tip seemed too focused on Maxwell and I needed to understand it. I looked around to make sure we were alone, then leaned close to him. “I don’t know what bug is up your ass today, but you’ve been acting funny ever since we interviewed Maxwell—“

“He’s covering something.”

I poked his chest. “You know what I think. I think you’re jealous because he was hitting it off with Mena, and jealous because of…”

“Of what,
you
.”

I straightened, feeling a little indignant. “Yeah, me. Is that so ridiculous?”

Tip got the look he always did when he was really pissed, and his scar twitched. Then, as suddenly as it came to him, it disappeared, his face softening with his voice. “Maybe I
am
a little jealous. Maybe. But it’s not affecting my judgment. I
know
Maxwell is dirty with something, and I’m going to find out what.”

I didn’t say anything. Neither of us did for a while, not even when Betty brought the coffee. He was halfway through it before he broke the silence. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be jealous. I’ve got Elena, and…well, I shouldn’t be that’s all.”

More silence followed, then I whispered real soft, “Me too.”

“What?”

“Since you were honest, maybe I admit I’m a little jealous of Elena.”

Tip smiled, and it was that smile with his scar that affected women the right way. “So you like me?”

I half-laughed, half-scoffed. “Christ’s sake, Denton, this isn’t the eighth grade.”