A Killing Fair (19 page)

 

Chapter 28: Waiting Game

S
ix minutes after my call Alan Jeffrey popped out of the elevator, breathing hard and holding his camera at the ready. “What's happening?” he asked.

“Somebody in there is about to be arrested,” I said, pointing at the Public Health Department door. “We don't know who or why, but Curtis Brown is in there.”

“Brownie? Homicide? What the hell?” He wiped a drop of sweat off the end of his nose with the back of his left hand.

“My thoughts exactly,” I said.

The second elevator opened and a Channel Five news crew came out to join us.

“Guess you don't get a scoop, Trish,” I said.

“Trish Valentine reporting live,” she said. “Tied for first with breaking news.”

“Who are they arresting?” asked Valerie Karnes, the long-legged, dark-haired Channel Five reporter.

“Nobody knows,” Trish said. “But we're ready for them, who­ever it is.”

We were, indeed, ready. And we stayed ready through the lunch hour and on into the afternoon. Don O'Rourke called my cell phone every ten minutes to ask what was going on. The two TV reporters took turns standing in front of the office door every twelve minutes, reporting live that breaking news was about to happen. A third TV crew arrived and began reporting live. Soon after them came a reporter and photographer from the Minneapolis paper. We now had a media circus without a ringmaster or a feature act.

At two minutes past two the office door opened and Andrew Brigham, assistant Ramsey County attorney, stepped out and closed the door behind him. His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped when he saw the mob. He took a deep breath and swallowed. “Um, you'll have to clear the way folks,” he said more as a wish than a command. “Please, everybody back off and let us get to the elevators.”

“What's happening?” we all yelled in unison.

“It's complicated,” Brigham said.

“So tell us,” I said.

“Not here.” He looked at his wristwatch. “The county attorney's office at, um, three o'clock. We'll explain everything then. Now please clear a path to the elevator.”

Like a spent wave of seawater flowing back off a beach, we retreated en masse to the far side of the elevator. Brigham punched the down button and went back and opened the office door. A parade emerged, led by Curtis Brown, City Attorney Myles Walters and the mayor. They were followed by the two uniformed officers holding the arms of a short, sallow, gray-haired man whose hands were cuffed behind his back. Next was Vito Luciano, who was trying to make himself invisible behind the trio. The two top Public Health Department officials came next, and two dark-suited men who looked like lawyers brought up the rear.

We were all shouting questions and taking pictures as the cordon waited for an elevator. Brigham kept holding up his hand and shouting, “Not now. Three o'clock. Not now.”

The elevator arrived and everybody except the two lawyers got on. We kept shouting questions and they kept saying, “No comment,” until the other elevator arrived and opened a way for them to escape. When they were in, I slid past Trish and squeezed through the closing elevator doors.

“Who is that in handcuffs?” I asked.

“No comment,” said one suit.

“The county attorney will tell you,” said the other.

“What's the charge against him?”

“No comment,” said one.

“The county attorney will tell you,” said the other.

“Are you representing the man they arrested?”

“No comment,” said one.

“Actually, we are—temporarily,” said the other. “But he has the right to select his own representative and I don't think it will be us.”

“Why not you?” I asked.

“No comment,” said one.

“His ass is in deeper trouble than we can dig it out of,” said the other. The elevator stopped, the doors opened and the two lawyers scooted away at double time.

 

* * *

 

“This is complicated, so please bear with me,” Andrew Brigham said to the media mob in the county attorney's office. Standing a step behind Brigham in a line at his left were the county attorney, the city attorney and the chief of homicide.

“Quite a high-powered lineup,” I said to Trish Valentine, who was standing in front of me.

“It's complicated,” she said.

Brigham read his statement from a sheet of paper: “The man you saw brought out of the Public Health Department office in handcuffs is Sheldon Kularski, age sixty-two, who has worked as a restaurant inspector for the City of St. Paul for twenty-seven years. Mr. Kularski will be charged with extortion, specifically demanding money from restaurant owners in exchange either for overlooking violations of the health code, or for threatening to report violations that did not, in fact, exist.

“The charge is based on evidence presented by Vito Luciano, the owner of King Vinnie's Steakhouse, located on West Seventh Street in this city. This evidence was gathered and documented by the late Vincent Luciano, the previous owner of King Vinnie's Steakhouse, who died before he was able to present the evidence to authorities.”

Brigham looked up from what he was reading and said, “This is where the complications begin, so listen close.”

“Listen closely,” I whispered in Trish Valentine's ear. She jabbed me two inches below the bellybutton with her elbow.

Returning to the written statement, Brigham continued: “Vincent Luciano informed Mr. Kularski of his intent to present the evidence, which includes demanding substantial amounts of money from King Vinnie's Steakhouse and a number of other St. Paul restaurants. Five days after notifying Mr. Kularski of his intentions, Vincent Luciano was poisoned while presenting a new novelty food item at the Minnesota State Fair. Vito Luciano then took charge of the restaurant, found the material in the office safe and submitted it to the Department of Public Health. Today's action is the result of an internal investigation conducted by depart­ment officials in conjunction with the St. Paul Police Department.

“At Vito Luciano's suggestion, the homicide division has investigated Mr. Kularski's whereabouts at the time of Vincent Luciano's untimely death. Mr. Kularski has denied having any participation in the poisoning. He also has denied being at the State Fairgrounds at that time, but a witness who knows Mr. Kularski personally has stated that she saw Mr. Kularski at the fairgrounds on that morning. Therefore, our office is considering the possibility of filing a murder charge against Mr. Kularski in addition to the aforementioned charge of extortion.” Brigham looked up and took a breath. “Now I'll take your questions.”

He looked at Trish, whose hand was waving, and pointed to her.

“How certain is the witness that the man she saw in the crowd at the fair was Mr. Kularski?”

“The witness is completely certain,” Brigham said. “She took special notice because Mr. Kularski was holding hands with another man.”

“Do you know who the other man is?” I asked before Brigham could look away.

“We have identified him,” Brigham said.

“Is he a suspect, too?” asked Valerie Karnes.

“He is a person of interest. He has not been arrested.”

“When will you decide whether to charge Mr. Kularski with murder?” asked someone behind me.

“That depends on the results of Detective Lieutenant Brown's investigation.”

“Have Falcon Heights police been working with Detective Brown?” I asked.

Brownie stepped forward. “There has been some exchange of information and we are looking forward to a more cooperative effort in the near future,” he said.

“In other words, ‘no,'” I whispered. Trish jabbed me again, a little lower. “Keep it above the belt,” I said.

The questions soon became irrelevant or unanswerable and Brigham called a halt. I turned looking for Al and heard Trish giving her wrap-up: “This is Trish Valentine, reporting live from St. Paul City Hall.”

“Still think cousin Vito's the big bad killer?” Al said as we walked back to the Daily Dispatch.

“Can't win'em all,” I said.

“By my count you haven't won any. First Louie is released and now Vito turns out to be Mr. Clean.”

“Okay, so I'm down and dirty with two strikes against me, but KGB and company in Falcon Heights are also close to striking out looking for the real killer.”

“Maybe so, but you've been caught off base twice with the Luciano family.”

“Who'd have thought Vito would pitch in for the good guys? And I also remember Louie saying something about bribes to inspectors when we first met him. I wonder if he knew that Vinnie was on Kularski's tail.”

Don O'Rourke had left for the day, so I gave Fred Donlin, the night city editor, a rundown on the events in City Hall and went straight to the phone on my desk. “Homicidebrown,” was the one-word answer to my call.

“Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said. “I've got a few more ques­tions for you, such as how long have you been involved in the Vinnie Luciano murder investigation without me knowing it?”

“Couldn't talk about it,” Brownie said. “Couldn't risk having the word get out and spooking Kularski. Didn't want him follow­ing his stolen money to the Dominican Republic or some such place before we could collar him.”

“How solid is the witness who placed Kularski at the fair?”

“Rock solid. The witness works in the health office and volunteered the information while we were interviewing her about the suspected bribes. She gave Kularski a second and third look when she saw him holding hands with a guy because she didn't know he was gay.”

“How would Kularski have known about Vinnie's dog-and-pony show at the state fair?”

“There was a listing of fair events in your great Sunday newspaper three days before Vinnie was killed. It included a blurb about Vinnie introducing a new food on a stick. Even gave the time and place.”

“Oh, god, I forgot about that. So are you going to have Grubby Grimes, the stick delivery man, look at Kularski?”

“Alleged stick delivery man if you please,” Brownie said. “We'll do the same thing Falcon Heights did with Louie Luciano. We'll do a lineup with Kularski and three other guys in a dark room and have all four recite what Grimes says the guy who hired him said in the parking lot.”

“Speaking of Falcon Heights, you dodged the question about working with them. What's really happening?”

“I did not dodge the question,” Brownie said. “I merely gave a diplomatic answer. Off the record, they weren't all that interested in joining our investigation at first but they're ready to climb on board now. Their problem now is that we've got the guy locked up and they'll have to come to our house to talk to him.”

“Have fun working with detective Barnes.”

“There's no cop I can't work with, Mitch.”

“That's what I thought until I ran into KGB.”

“I don't anticipate any problems, Mitch. Have a good day.”

My story was nearly finished when my phone rang. I was surprised at the caller's greeting. “Hello, Mr. Mitchell, it's Detective Barnes at the Falcon Heights PD.”

“Hello, detective,” I said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We're seeing TV reports on the arrest of a restaurant inspector who might be charged with the Vincent Luciano murder. We're assuming you were at the press conference. In fact, we think we saw you behind the little blond TV reporter.”

“That's me—right next to Trish Valentine reporting live.”

“Oh, yes, that's her name—Trish. Anyway, we're calling because we're wondering if we could have that lunch you've been asking about.”

I almost dropped the phone. “Why the sudden change of heart?” I asked.

“We were aware of the investigation but we're assuming you know more about the evidence than you can print in the paper,” KGB said. “And we're also looking for some insight into Detective Brown of the St. Paul PD, the man we'll be working with.”

“Sounds pretty one-sided,” I said. “What's in this conversa­tion for me?”

“We might be able to give you something of interest.” Her tone was more coy flirtation than cop information.

“Such as?”

“Meet us and see.”

I wanted to tell the royal “we” to take her lunch and shove it where the sun don't, excuse me, doesn't shine. However, professional curiosity and testosterone stimulation won out over my desire for personal vindication. We agreed to meet in a restaurant in Rosedale at 12:30 the next day.

 

Chapter 29: A New Look

H
ealth inspector Sheldon Kularski was arraigned at 8:30 Thursday morning with the usual crowd of reporters, photographers, and busybodies looking on. He was charged with extortion, acceptance of bribes, and obstruction of justice. No mention of murder or manslaughter. Apparently Brownie's investigation wasn't far enough along for that.

The group of law enforcement officials attending did not include anyone from the Falcon Heights Police Department. I expected to see either Chief Tubb or Detective Barnes but neither appeared.

The person whose appearance did surprise me was the lawyer who stood up with Kularski as he entered his not guilty pleas. It was Linda L. Lansing, known throughout the Twin Cities as the premier defender of the guilty.

“What do you think about Linda Lansing appearing for the defense?” Al asked as we hiked back to the office.

“I'm wondering if she'll still be there when the charge is murder,” I said.

“Does she ever defend anybody who is really innocent?”

“She defended you when you were accused of killing that umpire.” Al had been accused of murdering an umpire with whom he'd had an argument the previous day, and Triple-L had come to the rescue.

“So it's not a sure thing that he's guilty if she takes the case.”

“Nothing in life is a sure thing except death and taxes.”

“And cockroaches,” Al said. “I read somewhere that there will always be cockroaches even if humans exterminate themselves.”

“You're buggy,” I said. “Cockroaches would starve without humans.”

Back at my desk, I discovered an e-mail from Willow on my desktop computer. I was surprised that she hadn't contacted me earlier. It was easy enough to do; my e-mail address appeared in italics at the end of every bylined story.

My mouse started guiding the cursor toward the delete button but my curiosity got the better of me. I opened the message and read: “I really, really enjoyed our little meeting yesterday morning. Please tell my darling sweet Al how much I worship him and miss our sweet little conversations. Please show him the attachment so he can see what he's missing and tell him to get in touch (in more ways than one).”

Also out of curiosity, I peeked at the attachment. It was a full-length, full-front photo of Willow, dressed as she was the moment she was born. Her unclad body at its current age looked, well, willowy. Too bad her brain was behaving as if she'd fallen out of a tree and landed on her crown. I closed the attachment and deleted the message. No sense bothering Al.

 

* * *

 

Detective K.G. Barnes was already seated and the menus were on the table when I arrived at the restaurant at 12:30. She was wearing a filmy white blouse with the two top buttons unbut­toned and a navy blue skirt that ended above the middle of her thighs. I'd always seen her wearing a dark blue uniform shirt and matching slacks, and I had never imagined her body and legs to be so enticingly proportioned.

The new, sexy KGB rose with a wide smile, grasped my proffered hand with both of hers and held on for several beats longer than necessary. Her hands were strong, but smoother and softer than I expected a cop's hands would be.

“We read your story this morning,” KGB said. “It went well beyond the TV reports. You obviously have a good relationship with Detective Brown.”

“We've developed a mutual trust over the years,” I said. “It helps us both.”

“Were you anticipating a similar trusting relationship with us?”

I wasn't sure if “us” meant her or the Falcon Heights PD in general. “I didn't expect to form an instant bond but I was hoping for more access to background information.”

KGB cocked her head in a flirtatious way. “So all those lunch meetings you kept proposing were strictly for business?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I was hoping to break through the wall you and your chief were building around the investigation.” I picked up the menu and opened it, wondering where this conversa­tion was going.

She followed my lead on the menu. “You're sure that you weren't trying to break through anything else?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.” I skimmed the sandwich selections while she replied.

“What we mean is that we're a woman and you're an attractive man. We thought you might be wishing for something more than police department information.”

“What I'm wishing for right now is that you would drop the royal ‘we' and talk like a regular human being.”

“Is that all you want me to drop?” Again the tone was a come-on.

“That'll do for now,” I said.

“Maybe something else later?”

Before I could respond, our server, who'd said her name was Maria, interrupted us to take our orders. I asked for a cheese and bacon burger, and KGB opted for the portabella mushroom burger. We both ordered lemonade.

I needed to change the tone of the conversation so I asked how much contact she'd had with Detective Curtis Brown. It turned out that her chief had all but ignored Brownie when he reported that he was investigating a new suspect in the Luciano murder case. This exchange led us into a much less sexually charged conversation, with KGB looking for additional informa­tion about the activities of the new suspect and the personality of Detective Brown. I gave her little that she didn't already know about either the evidence or the man she'd be working with.

KGB grabbed the check when Maria delivered it. “My treat,” she said.

“My thanks,” I said.

“Any other treats you're interested in?” She unbuttoned the third button on her blouse and leaned toward me across the table. I was treated to an expanse of creamy cleavage because her bra was cut extremely low. “You never did answer my ques­tion about what else you'd like us, I mean me, to drop,” she said.

I was tempted to say, “Your panties.” I was ninety-nine percent sure that's what she was hoping I would say. Instead, I wriggled out of the trap by saying we should discuss treats and drops sometime in the future when we weren't involved in a professional manner.

“We . . . uh, I suppose you're right,” KGB said. “But I was serious when I said I think you're an attractive man.”

“And you're an attractive woman when you let your official guard down and drop the royal ‘we,'” I said. “May I ask you kind of a personal question?”

“You may ask it. I don't promise to answer it.”

“What do your initials, K and G, stand for?”

She thought for a moment before responding. “You promise not to print them?”

“Swear it on a stack of style books.”

Again she hesitated. “The middle initial G is for Gretchen,” she said at last. “And the goddamn K is for Kitty. Would you believe my parents named me Kitty? I've been fighting that image all my life.”

“Thanks, that explains a lot,” I said. “And I promise that you'll never see Kitty in print.”

We walked out together and she gave my hand another long, warm squeeze before we went our separate ways.

“You can expect more cooperation and a lot less ‘we,'” were her parting words. She left me wondering what had inspired this unexpected turnaround.

 

* * *

 

Detective Lieutenant Curtis Brown had nothing new to offer when I called him after lunch. He hadn't run the lineup with Kularski because they had only one other man, a guy who had slugged his wife and couldn't make bail, in the city jail.

Brownie invited me to come and stand in the lineup but I respectfully declined. I had done that once when I was subbing for Augie Augustine at the police station and the clowns locked me in a cell and disappeared for ten minutes afterward. I was starting to sweat when they finally unlocked the cell door. “Just trying to make it look real to the prisoners,” was the excuse given. Never again.

“I'll come and watch,” I said.

“Like hell you will. His lawyer would chew me up and spit me out in little pieces if I let a reporter watch.”

“You're right. Triple-L is as ferocious as a tiger.”

“Doesn't your sweetie work for her?”

“She does, but that won't help me any. Triple-L is also like a clam.”

 

* * *

 

Martha and I watched both the dinner time news and ten o'clock news and we were amazed at how the TV reporters went after Sheldon Kularski. At five o'clock we saw Trish Valentine standing beside the stage at Heritage Square, talking about how Grubby Grimes had delivered the poison after allegedly being hired by Kularski. At ten o'clock we switched channels and saw tape of Valerie Karnes standing almost in Trish's footprints and making the same claim. The anchors on both broadcasts all but declared Kularski guilty, citing the vaguest of comments by City Attorney Myles Walters.

“They've probably got it right but I think they're jumping the gun on convicting him,” I said. “I don't think I heard the word ‘alleged' used much on either channel.”

“They're also poisoning the jury pool,” Martha said.

“Spoken like a true lawyer.”

“What do you want from a person who is a true lawyer?”

“Turn off the tube and I'll show you what I want from one particular true lawyer.”

She did and I did. She already knew that what I wanted had nothing to do with her being a true lawyer. True to form, she started taking off her clothes while leading me into the bedroom. I had no objection.