Bad Business (23 page)

“So Augustine can't be confronted with this. Not officially.”

“Nope.”

Shit
.

Tozzi scowled at the angel. “So what're you gonna do? Tell Ivers and let him decide what to do?” Despite the cold, Tozzi's back was sweaty. “ 'Course, if you go that route, Ivers'll just take a watch-and-wait attitude because you've got no evidence against Augustine, which means he really won't do very much at all and basically nothing will happen.”

And I'm getting sick of nothing happening
.

Gibbons grunted. He was still staring at the clouds gathering over the cemetery. Tozzi could tell he was mulling it over. He didn't like it when Gibbons mulled things over. Things never seemed to get done very fast when he thought about it too much.

Tozzi heard the crunch of gravel coming down the path then. He turned his head and saw McCleery, hands in his pockets, strutting toward them with that annoying self-satisfied smile on his face. Gibbons was chewing his upper
lip, baring his lower teeth. Streams of vapor were shooting out of his nostrils.

“Have you settled on a tombstone for your dear departed uncle yet, Tozzi?”

“I'm working on it, McCleery.”

“A word of advice to you: I know they're expensive as the devil, but don't skimp on the price. Buy your uncle a good one or you'll regret it for the rest of your days. The relatives will talk behind your back, say you didn't love him.”

“I didn't. Actually, I was looking around for a used one. Uncle Pete would've approved of that.”

McCleery shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned to Gibbons. “You look cold, Cuthbert.”

“You look like an asshole, McCleery. At least I can get warm.”

“Always quick with a quip, aren't you, Cuthbert? You must be a constant delight to your dear wife.”

Gibbons didn't answer.

“Speaking of Lorraine,” McCleery continued, “I happen to know that she was here two days ago. She picked out a very nice stone for your uncle, Tozzi. That one, I believe, the one with the little angel. Almost $800, but a wise choice if you ask me. As I said, you buy a crummy headstone and your cheapskate ways will haunt you forever. But this leaves me with a bit of a puzzlement. If Lorraine already purchased the stone, what're you two doing here? Not having a little illicit rendezvous, are we? Did you really think you could fool ol' Jimmy by making believe you were shopping for a stone?”

Tozzi stared at him from under his brows. He wished there were an open grave McCleery could trip into and break a leg. “The old guy in the hut must be pretty chatty, huh?”

The old guy was at the window right now, looking at them. McCleery waved. “Mr. Dunbar is a delight. We get along famously.”

Gibbons blew into his fingers again. “Glad to hear it, McCleery. At least somebody likes you.”

“Well, I hope
you
have a good circle of friends, Cuthbert. As I've stated before, Lorraine will need a great deal of support when her hubby takes the big fall with her cousin.”

Tozzi closed his eyes.
Fuck you, McCleery
.

Gibbons snorted up a laugh. “Jesus, you still trying to peddle that one? Tozzi as the killer is unbelievable enough. You think anyone's gonna buy the two of us as accomplices? You know, these theories of yours may sound great in your head, but without evidence they're just bullshit.”

“I'm in total agreement with you on that, Cuthbert.” McCleery smiled like he had chocolate on his tongue.

“So what're you telling me, McCleery? You got evidence now?” Gibbons was laughing.

McCleery grinned and nodded. “The ballistics report came back yesterday from the New Jersey State Police. Very interesting. The slugs they found in the bedroom came from two weapons, but the slugs that killed Bloom, Santiago, and Cooney came from only one of those weapons. The other gun was used only on Giordano and was only fired twice during the entire debacle. One hit and one miss.”

“And what do you make of that, Sherlock?”

“They were 9mm cartridges, so in all likelihood the weapons were big automatics with large-capacity clips—standard hit-man issue. Now, this set me to thinking. Why was one gunman so much better than the other? The mob, we presume, would hire only the best for such an important mission. Why send a cockeyed shooter in with a pro? And then something else occurred to me. I didn't want to believe it at first, so I did a little digging, hoping to disprove it. But unfortunately I failed.” McCleery went into his inside pocket and came out with a few folded sheets of paper, photocopies. “These are copies of both your marksmanship evaluations the last three times you each visited the range. Your ability with the 9mm pistol is quite admirable, Tozzi.
Yours, however, Cuthbert, is sorely lacking. See here. Your scores with the revolver are markedly better than your scores with the automatic.”

Tozzi looked at Gibbons. It was true. Gibbons was much better with a revolver.

“Now, I remember from that brief time Ivers put us together that you shunned the standard-issue weapon in favor of some old Colt .38 you had. You were quite fond of that piece, Cuthbert. I remember you complaining bitterly that you disliked automatics, that you could never get used to the recoil, the odd way they twisted back after you fired.”

A cloud of vapor spewed out of Gibbons's nose. “Make your point, McCleery.”

“Well, it's not really a point, just a notion really. The ballistics report indicates that one gunman was skilled and impetuous, apparently eager to get the job done. The other seemed to hang back—maybe gave the orders to the impetuous one—and he showed only fifty-percent accuracy with the two shots he took. You could say that this profile fits you two fellas to a T.”

Tozzi's gut bottomed out.
Great
.

Gibbons was smiling with his teeth. “You've outdone yourself this time, Sherlock. This one just might secure your place in the Assholes Hall of Fame. You know, anybody can take reports and random clues and make them fit a scenario, but that doesn't make it fact. Any good cop knows that. What if there weren't two gunmen? What if there was only one guy and he had a gun in each hand? One gun would naturally be more accurate than the other, unless he was ambidextrous, which most people aren't.”

“Come now, Cuthbert, this isn't the Wild West we're talking about. Bad guys in black hats with twin six-shooters? Let's get back to reality.”

“See, this is what I'm talking about. You've fallen into the biggest pitfall in law enforcement. You've convinced yourself that this is how it went down and you're gonna force all
the evidence you've got to support that contention. The only thing you've proven here is that you're a fucking nitwit.”

“Calm down now, Cuthbert, and mind your blood pressure. I didn't say I was married to this notion. All I said is that I'm entertaining it. A professional doesn't discount any possibility.”

Especially if it can hang us
. Tozzi was sweating under his coat.

“Well, it's getting cold out here.” McCleery was smiling cheerily. “I'm going back in with Mr. Dunbar. He said he was putting a fresh pot on. You two can carry on with whatever skulduggery you were up to. I just thought I'd let you know what I was thinking in case you were planning some of your typical derring-do. Have to keep you on your toes.” He turned and crunched back down the gravel path, disappearing into Mr. Dunbar's hut.

A chill wind swung the limbs of the tall pine tree that loomed over the rows of sample headstones. The sky was pewter-gray. Tozzi looked at Gibbons, who was glaring at the hut. His gut was aching and he felt as if his ankles were sunk in concrete, stuck in place while large forces rolled dangerously close to him like giant boulders. He wanted to do something to help himself, but he wasn't sure what he could do. He had a few vague ideas, but they were all of the extralegal variety, strategies Gibbons definitely wouldn't go along with. Gibbons talked a good game, but when you came right down to it, he was a straight arrow, a by-the-book man. It was time to shake things up,
his
way, but Gibbons would never go for it.

“So what do you think?” he finally said.

Gibbons's eyes darted in his direction. They were sharp and mean. “I think McCleery has gotten way out of hand.”

“I think the whole situation has gotten way out of hand.”

“You're right. It has.”

“So what do we do?”

Gibbons looked down at the sad little angel. “I think it's time to shake things up, make something happen, find out who knows what.” He looked Tozzi in the eye.

“Really?”

“Really. You got any ideas? You usually do.”

Tozzi rubbed his jaw and looked his partner in the eye, a little suspicious of him. “Yeah. I got a few ideas.”

Tozzi could hear the hubbub coming from upstairs. He peered up the winding stairway, but he didn't see anyone, just a lot of oil paintings on the wall going up the stairs, smug-looking burgermeister types in powdered wigs and sharp-eyed dowagers in bonnets and long skirts, portraits of the Augustine ancestors, no doubt. From the tinkle of glasses and the convivial voices, it sounded like Augustine was having a little party up there.

The maid had told him to wait here. Actually she'd tried to get rid of him—some Eastern European battle-ax with a chest like an icebreaker—but Tozzi had insisted that it was very important, so with a deep scowl of disapproval, she climbed the stairs and said she'd tell Mr. Augustine he was here, but she doubted that he'd want to be disturbed while he was entertaining.

Tozzi grinned behind her back. He was gonna disturb her boss all right. More than she could imagine.

Tozzi crossed his arms and checked the place out as he waited. The bannister on the staircase was dark-stained
cherry wood. On the ceiling, a brass chandelier was centered on an ornate plaster medallion. A dark wood cabinet with polished brass hardware was the only piece of furniture in the hallway. Tozzi didn't know squat about antiques, but he had a feeling this was the real thing. He peered out the small leaded-glass windowpane in the front door. Two black limos were double-parked out front. East Sixty-sixth Street right off Fifth. Fancy schmancy.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly to see a pair of oxblood wing tips coming down the carpeted stairs. The shoes were almost the same color as the cherry bannister.

“Mike. What can I do for you?”

Augustine put his hand out as he came off the last step. He was wearing a blue suit with a solid maroon tie. His white shirt looked so starched it made Tozzi hunch his shoulders. It was the classic politician outfit. He'd read an article a long time ago about political media consultants and how they handled their clients. It was generally agreed that if you wanted your man to come off as sincere, caring, and dedicated, you dressed him in a single-breasted dark blue suit, a solid white shirt, and a solid tie in a muted color. Yeah, that was Augustine—Mr. Sincere, Caring, and Dedicated. We'll see about that.

Tozzi shook his hand. “I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. Augustine—”

“Tom. Please.” Augustine's smile was warm. His eyes crinkled with sincerity. No hard feelings from the other day after Uncle Pete's funeral.

Tozzi nodded. “I apologize for coming here like this, Tom, but I think this is important. I've come up with a theory on the killings at Uncle Pete's. Well, more than a theory, really.”

“Oh?”

“Ah . . . maybe we should go somewhere a little more private.”

“Of course. Come up to the study.”

Augustine led the way up the stairs. When they got to the second floor, Tozzi got a glimpse of the party. The double doors leading to the front room were open. It was a big living room where at least a dozen people in evening clothes were chatting and laughing, most of them standing in small groups. The busty battle-ax was carrying a silver tray of hors d'oeuvres, serving the guests. As far as Tozzi could see, except for her and one other woman, everyone else in the room was black.

“We're having a little dinner party,” Augustine explained.

Tozzi recognized a few of the faces in the crowd. An assemblyman from Brooklyn, a prominent Harlem minister, a former borough president.

“They've been nagging me to wine and dine certain influential people. The party, that is. They want me to run for mayor next year, even though I keep telling them I don't have a prayer.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Tozzi. “This city is not going to elect a WASP mayor, and frankly it shouldn't. The mayor should represent his constituency, don't you think? Nevertheless, whether I run or not, they tell me these affairs are good for the party. So . . .” Augustine shrugged and grinned as if it were out of his hands.

Yeah, right, Tom. The bastard was sucking up to whoever could get him elected. Tozzi glanced back into the living room. The reverend was squinting through his bifocals, studying the selection on the battle-ax's tray. Tozzi wondered how often blacks were guests in this house. From the look on the maid's face, not very.