A Killing Fair (8 page)

My cell phone rang at about 12:45, just as I was wrapping things up at the police station. It was Al, saying he could pick me up with a staff car for lunch. The House of Italy was on Payne Avenue, a short ride from downtown to the East Side.

The House of Italy was smaller in both dining area and menu prices than the Northern Exposure. The owner, Luigi Bunatori, and his wife, Francesca, lived above the restaurant and sometimes invited special guests to eat in their private dining room. These special guests were usually politicians looking for a quiet place to discuss city and state issues.

Luigi Bunatori's custom was to greet male customers with a bone-crushing handshake, wave in the general direction of the dining room and say, “Sit anywhere there's a clean table.” When we were met at the door by a tall, blonde woman, we speculated that Luigi was entertaining someone special on the second floor. The hostess who pointed us toward an empty booth confirmed this suspicion but said she was not permitted to identify the special guest. I said I hoped we could chat with Luigi for a few minutes, and she promised to relay the request.

I had finished a cup of minestrone and was starting on my meatball sandwich when Luigi arrived at our booth. He slid in beside Al, facing me.

“How was the soup?” Luigi asked after shaking hands all around. We both said it was wonderful and he gave us a big smile. “So, Amelia says you want to chat with me. What's it about?”

“We're still working on the Vinnie Luciano murder story,” I said. “I'm just wondering about your reaction to his death.”

“Me?” Luigi said. “Why should I have any reaction to Vinnie's death? Vinnie and me had nothing in common.”

“You and Vinnie's both draw a lot of high-profile customers,” I said. “I thought maybe you considered him a competitor for that sort of business.”

“Are you kiddin'? How could a little place like this compete with a huge operation like Vinnie's? You could put this whole restaurant into King Vinnie's kitchen. They got their crowd and we got ours, and ours is a hell of a lot smaller. King Vinnie's is way out of my league.”

“Did Vinnie ever try to lure away any of your crowd?” Al said.

“Jesus, you guys are asking as many questions as that detective from Falcon Heights,” Luigi said. “What's with the inquisition any way?”

“You were questioned by Detective Barnes?” I said.

“Yeah, I think that's what she said her name was. A real bitch, that woman. So now what am I, some kind of suspect in Vinnie's murder just because I was at the fair that day?”

“You were at the fair?” I said. “Were you where you saw Vinnie die?”

“Christ, no,” Luigi said. “I wouldn't go anywhere near where that asshole was showing off. Pardon my French.”

“You didn't like Vinnie?” Al asked.

“I don't like all these questions,” Luigi said. “Like I told that detective, I had nothin' to do with Vinnie Luciano, dead or alive. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to my guest.” He stomped away and disappeared through the door leading to the stairs.

“Take your time with your sandwich,” I said. “If we hang around long enough we might see his guest leave.”

So we dawdled and had a second cup of coffee. We dawdled some more and had dessert and a third cup of coffee. We were about to give up the stakeout when two middle-aged men wearing dark business suits emerged from the stairway door and walked briskly to the exit.

“I should know the guy on the right,” Al said. “Who is he?”

“Mark Peterson,” I said. “The attorney general of the state of Minnesota.”

“Good to have friends in high places.”

“Especially if you're suspected of taking somebody down,” I said.

 

Chapter 9: The Chief Problem

T
he message light on my phone was blinking. I pressed the play button. “This is Detective Barnes,” the message said. “Call us.” Oh, goody, the royal “us.” And her voice was cold enough to freeze the Mississippi River in August.

I punched in the number and was immediately transferred to KGB. “Hi,” I said when she answered. “It's Mitch from the Daily Dispatch.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” she said.

“That's a strange question. Why do you ask?”

“I thought you'd be bursting with pride after going over our head.”

“Going where? I'm sorry, but you've lost me.” Not to mention mixing a plural modifier with a singular noun.

“Going over our head and getting the St. Paul police chief to talk to our chief about releasing information. Are you proud of that?”

Oh, my god, I thought. Brownie's better idea. “I never asked him to do that,” I said. “If the city chief called your chief, it wasn't my idea.” Technically this was true.

“So you're an innocent man?” KGB said.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“And we both know that this country's jails are full of innocent men, don't we, Mr. Mitchell?”

“I'm telling you the truth, Detective Barnes. You're giving me credit for having way more influence with the police than I actually have.”

“Really?” she said. It was more of a snort than a question.

“Really,” I said. “Reporters can only dream about having that kind of power.”

“Well, it looks like your dream has come true and your pajamas are wet. But the fact is there haven't been any developments in this case to report. If you don't believe us, we'll transfer you to Chief Tubb and you can ask her in person.”

I didn't appreciate having my figurative dream turned into a wet one so I decided to go on the offensive. “What about the people you've been talking to?” I said. “For example, is Luigi Bunatori a suspect, or a person of interest or what?”

There was a moment of silence before she answered. “What makes you think we talked to Luigi Bunatori?”

“He said you did. Can you confirm that? I won't publish his name.”

Another moment of silence. “You can say we have talked to a person who knew the victim,” KGB said. “You can even say we've talked to several persons who knew the victim. However, they are not suspects. These were informational interviews.”

“So they're not even persons of interest?” I said.

A third momentary pause. “One of them is.”

“Would that be Luigi? As I said, I won't publish the name.”

“That's all we're saying at this time,” she said. “We're not identifying any individual as fitting any category, Mr. Mitchell, and Chief Tubb will back us on that. Now, are there any other questions?”

“Not at this time,” I said. “Thanks for the call.”

“Have a nice day,” KGB said. She made that routine signoff sound like the curse of the mummy's tomb.

I ended the call, and without even putting down the receiver, I punched in the private number for Detective Curtis Brown. After two minutes on automatic hold, the Muzak was interrupted with, “Homicidebrown.”

“Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said. “Tell me, how did you persuade your chief to call the chief at Falcon Heights?”

“When did that happen?” Brownie asked.

“Very recently. KGB sounded really pissed about it but she did pass out a tiny crumb of information.”

“Well, what a lucky coincidence for you. I guess the chief has a really strong interest in that case.”

“Anyway, thanks for the assist.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Have a good day, Mitch.”

So, if Brownie was denying putting the bug in the chief's ear, no way would I blow his cover. But I would mention to Al that we could use a flattering shot of Brownie at the next homicide scene.

I wondered who else KGB had questioned. Fred McDonald of the Teamsters had laughed me out of his office before I could ask about talking to the investigator. Oscar Peterson of the Northern Exposure had clammed up and walked away before I could ask about meeting with the cops. And even if they hadn't talked to KGB before I got to them, there had been plenty of time for a subsequent meeting. Was there a diplomatic way of getting back to McDonald and Peterson and inquiring? I couldn't think of one.

And there was still another possible suspect to consider. What excuse could I use to meet with Vinnie's cousin Vito. It was too late to use the reaction story scam on him. He'd expressed his reaction, whether it was genuine or not, at the funeral.

Somehow I had to dig up something for a story the next day. Readers' interest in the Vinnie Luciano murder was waning because I'd written so little about it. Already my stories had been moved from page one to the Local section front. Soon they'd be put in the back pages with the truss ads, which, as Don often told reporters, was the dead-end depository for stories that lacked reader interest.

I did not want my stories to be in the back pages with the truss ads. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure the paper still carried truss ads.

 

* * *

 

Martha got home late, wearing a weary look and bearing a box emitting a strong smell of pizza. She had gone to look at an apartment after work and was too tired to cook. She opened the box to reveal a two-way pizza—one side vegetarian for her and the other half crammed with sausage and pepperoni for me.

Martha would have been willing to end the hunt by making a deposit on this apartment, but she was aced out by a another hunter. While the rental agent was showing Martha the kitchen, a woman who'd looked at the apartment earlier in the day called to say she'd take it.

“That's a bitch,” I said. “You finally find a winner and somebody grabs it right out from under your feet.”

“Story of my life,” Martha said. “But the agent said she's got something else I might like just as much. I told her we've only got thirty days left in this apartment, and we made a date to look at it Saturday so that you can come along.”

“Wonderful. Nothing like togetherness on the weekend.”

“Togetherness is especially good when you're as sick of looking at apartments as I am.”

“I've noticed that the pressure of the hunt is wearing you down.” Martha had been dropping off to sleep the minute she hit the bed, which wasn't her usual pattern.

“If we put what's left of the pizza in the fridge and go to bed right now, I might not go to sleep so fast,” she said.

We did and she didn't.

 

* * *

 

“Any more e-mail barks from your favorite tree?” I asked Al as we sipped coffee in the Daily Dispatch cafeteria Thursday morning. I had put in a call to KGB, who once again was “not available” ac­cording to her telephone guardian, and decided not to wait by the phone in breathless anticipation of her response to the message I'd left.

“A couple,” Al said. “Willow is psychoanalyzing my pictures, one by one, trying to find what she calls their deeper meaning. She also offered to buy me lunch today. Do you think I should go?”

“Does she know you're married?”

“I think I've made that clear.”

“So maybe she's after the depth of your psychological meaning and not the shallowness of your physical body?”

“I doubt she's after this body. But I think I'll pass on the lunch invitation.”

“You're probably smart keeping this a cyber friendship,” I said. “Wives have been known to get jealous and do unspeakable things to husbands they suspect of sharing more than a sand­wich with another woman.”

“Carol wouldn't do anything unspeakable,” Al said. “She'd be speaking the whole time she was stabbing me.”

“Sharp words to go with a sharp knife?”

“You get the point.”

The light on my phone was blinking when I returned to my desk. I checked the message, expecting to hear KGB's icy voice. Instead the caller was a man who said his name was Ozzie and rattled off a number.

“Ozzie?” I said out loud. “Who the hell is Ozzie?”

“Sorry,” said Corinne Ramey, who was at the nearest desk. “I don't know who Ozzie is.”

“I was talking to myself,” I said. “Sorry I was so loud.”

“Isn't talking to yourself one of the first signs of dementia?” she said.

“I'd be crazy to answer that,” I said as I punched in the number for Ozzie Whoever He Was.

The voice that answered said, “Vinnie's Steakhouse, Ozzie speaking.”

Of course. It was Vinnie's bartender, Ozzie Bergman. Was forgetting the names of people you've interviewed another sign of dementia?

“This is Mitch at the Daily Dispatch,” I said. “What's up?”

“You said to call you if I had anything interesting,” Ozzie said.

“I did. What have you got?”

“A new boss.”

What the hell? Could Vinnie's family have sold the restaurant that fast? “What happened?” I asked. “Who is it?”

“Vinnie's lawyer read his will to the family yesterday. Would you believe he left the restaurant to his cousin Vito, the guy he kicked out twenty years ago?”

“You're kidding. Why would he do that?”

“Don't know,” Ozzie said. “Vinnie's oldest boy, Louie, called and told me about it this morning. Said it was a kick in the ass to him and his brother and sister. Last they knew, they were all named in the will to get equal shares in the restaurant.”

“So this must have been a recent change?” I said.

“I guess. Louie said the kids are thinking about contesting the will.”

“Have you talked to Vito since you got the news?”

“He ain't been in. Me and Max, the manager, are still running the joint.”

“Max and I,” I said.

“What about you and Max?”

“The correct way to say that is . . . oh, forget it. I'm having verbal knee-jerks.”

“Who'd you say is a jerk?”

“Nobody's a jerk—except maybe me.” I asked Ozzie for phone numbers for Vito and Louie. After reciting the numbers, he said, “Hope this helps with what you're doing.”

“You don't know how much,” I said. I thanked him and smiled as I hung up. I now had a story for the next day and a reason to contact cousin Vito. And cousin Vito now had a clear motive for murder.