Bouncer (19 page)

“It was his adopted father, Martin Thayne. You have to hand it to him. Though in acute shock, Nick managed to keep his shock and despair from the fragile old woman, who died a few months later. She never knew that Nick’s biological father had adopted his own bastard son; that he had lied to his wife, the orphanage, everyone, because of some warped concept obtained from his grandfather regarding his own natural superiority.

“You see, fortunately or unfortunately, Martin Thayne believed blood is thicker than water, and it was his own overwhelming curiosity that finally overcame his guilt. The moment he laid eyes upon Nick, he saw the suggestion of his own face and thus allowed his childless wife, who he was married to even while promising the world to a naïve Filipino girl, adopt his bastard son.

“Are his parents aware that he knows?” ventured Lea.

“His father, yes. Nick stated his father slapped him on the back and said, ‘Boys will be boys, you know. Besides, how can you resist a woman who offers you anything?’”

Lea swallowed heavily, feeling half sorry for Thayne.

“You’ve heard of his temper?” queried Roger.

“Yeah. He lost his job with the SFPD because of it.” Her concise little dossier referred to his problem temper, which always blasted at the wrong time. That and his drinking.

“It’s still a little vague if he quit the force or was asked him to leave. I don’t think I want to know. As far is his father is concerned, Nick’s completely severed ties. Has contact with his mom though.” Roger sighed. “Does that give you a better picture?”

“It does indeed. Thanks, Roger. I appreciate your honesty.”

The information on Edith Simms had printed out, and Lea moved on to Philemon Jenkins. This was no means the end of the story, and she wasn’t one to give up on any unsolved mystery, even Nick Thayne’s. Thayne rattled the front door on returning, his eyes narrowing.

“You’ve sure been on the phone a long time.”

“So have you. I think Roger wants to talk to you.”

Thayne grabbed the phone while Fox made a pretense of scanning the file on Edith Simms, who had retired as a librarian nearly five years earlier.

“What’s up Roger? So, it will be another week before you can officially come back. How am I holding up?” He snorted. “I’m working with a gentle goddess, and I just spent the last ten minutes placating your boss. Believe me; I count my blessings every night before I go to bed.” He rolled his eyes at Fox, who glared back.

“Swine,” mumbled Lea, returning her eyes to the screen.

“I’ll be in contact.” Nick dropped the receiver into its cradle and watched her.

“What were you talking with Roger about?”

“Your temper, your drinking, and your unspecified methods.”

Nick narrowed his dark eyes at her. “I drink how I want to drink. We all have our crutches, Fox. Mine just isn’t as obvious as yours.”

His beautifully slanted eyes focused on the metal half-crutch leaning against the wall. She had gone without it recently but suspected she’d need it again soon. Nick would not apologize for any weakness, just as he knew Fox wouldn’t make excuses for her lameness. The pages on Philemon printed out, and Nick grabbed them.

“Shit,” he summarized.

“I believe men who swear have low vocabularies. I’m convinced Eddie Murphy and Eminem are barbarians, regardless of their money. And yes, this provides ample fodder for our Chief Rollins.”

He growled, appearing ready to take her head off. She ignored him.

“And look at this,” She pointed her finger at the lighted screen. “Believe it or not, it looks like a nutrition company has ownership of the house. Collins is the name of their manager.”

Nick squinted, “Leroy Collins of Mother Earth Industries. He gives his address as Sacramento, California.”

“Here’s his number, as well. Let’s give him a ring,” she said, handing the number to him. “Men usually deal better with other men on the phone. Let’s hear some of that famous Thayne charm now. I’ll put on the speaker phone and maybe some will rub off on me.”

Thayne grabbed the receiver. Charm, his eye. If she’d just learn some goddamned manners, she’d get a lot further. Leroy Collins was amazingly pleasant.

“Oh yes,” he said, “sometimes we have officials that work with the Agrit-Empire visit Monroe, and we put them up in the house.”

“You’re owned by the Agrit-Empire?” Thayne saw Fox stifle a gasp.

“We’re actually an affiliate, but yes, you could say that we’re under the umbrella of the mother company. Many of their products go into our food supplements as well as a natural line of produce where we take the wheat, lettuce, and potatoes and sell them to the public indicating they are not chemically altered in anyway.”

“The Agrit-Empire has an entire section of their fields that uses no pesticides?”

“That’s right, and we’re mighty proud of it.”

“So, the house on Chester Street is actually used only to house executives from your company?”

“Not just my company, though my name’s on the purchase form. We bought it for all three companies: Agrit Empire, Mother Earth
,
and Corporal Building Products.”

“Corporal Building Products? Montanari is more diversified than I expected.”

“Of course. Many of the major building projects in the Big Valley have actually been supplied by Montanari’s Corporal Building Products Company. In this day and age, most corporations have to diversify to stay in business in this unstable economy.”

“Does anyone live there now?” asked Nick, tapping his pencil on the pad where Lea had written down the number.

“No, I don’t believe so. Two months ago, Cheryl Haines and Rod Sturgis stayed for about five days to solidify the canning and packinghouse deal with Tri-Pack. I believe Al Crispen and his team from Corporal Building Products are slated for next weekend.”

“Does the house have a guard dog, by any chance?”

“No, but I’d have to say I’m not a real authority, since I’ve only been at the house once since it was purchased for the corporation. At that time, I met with Ruth Montanari who was the one who actually furnished the entire house and had the alarm system put in. I guess it’s a hobby of hers, since she comes across as a frustrated interior designer. I have to admit that Mrs. Montanari did a wonderful job, but I was only there for about fifteen minutes to take a walk through.”

“I appreciate your time, Mr. Collins. You’ve been most helpful.”

“So, the Montanari’s actually own that property,” mused Lea after Thayne hung up the phone. “And now Anthony wants a private viewing of the body. I wonder if Mr. Montanari was present at the ‘dinner’ for Thad and his mistress?”

Thayne grinned. “I do believe, Inspector Fox, that we have another suspect.”

Chapter 18

Papers were strewn everywhere as Thayne began scrutinizing the Montanari family tree at Fox’s oval dining room table. Lea had moved the computer in and started a family tree with Anthony Montanari and his wife Ruth next to him.

“There are three daughters and three sons of Anthony Montanari, who was married in October, 1950,” began Thayne. “His wife, Ruth, started young—only 17, while the elderly Anthony was 20.”

“Catholics have to marry young so they don’t commit the sin of fornication.”

“Really,” said Nick, mystified. He’d never personally felt fornication was that big a deal. “Their daughters are probably married. Nope, I take that back. Julia, the second oldest daughter, is a Dominican nun and lives in some convent in New Mexico.” He paused, and Lea tapped her pencil impatiently. “Wow,” he said, “for so many Montanari’s in the family, there sure aren’t many in the way of grandchildren. Randy and Anthony Jr.—Anthony’s oldest sons—were both killed in Vietnam in January 1972, within—get this, Fox—two weeks of one another. Randy was caught in machine gun fire, and a firebomb destroyed Tony’s bunker.

“Their sister, Julia, joined a convent at age seventeen within weeks of their death and the oldest daughter, Rose—Randy’s twin—ran off with a Jewish IRS agent. She lives in New York and doesn’t have any children. Rudy’s not married, of course, and is set to inherit everything. He’s thirty-one years old, will be thirty-two in late November, and was born in 1970, a full nine years younger than Maria, the last sister, who’s a professor.”

“What did you say his name is?” interrupted Fox.

“Rudy, short for Rudolph.”

“Like the red-nosed reindeer?”

Nick set the paper down very carefully. “Yeah, just like the song.”

“He’s next.”

Thayne’s eyes widened. “Then we’ve got to give him a call and warn him.”

Lea held a hand up. “No, the warning would be meaningless to him. It was meant for someone who cares for him.”

“Like Anthony Montanari?”

Lea stood up and scanned the paper over his shoulder. “Maybe. But it could anybody; Anthony or Ruth—or even one of his sisters or maybe a girlfriend or friend. And the youngest sister?”

“Maria is unmarried, but the information on her seems a little vague.” He lifted a sheet, searching for a marriage or more information.

“Oh, I remember. She’s a lesbian,” stated Lea. “Heard it while I was in school. So, there’s a real dearth of boys, unless Ruth has another child at age 69. I think that would mean real problems for the Montanari family.”

“And you think these sorts of things still matter in a Catholic family?” asked Nick.

Fox cocked a thick eyebrow.

“You’re right,” he sighed.

Fox pushed the society section of the
Monroe County Press
across the table to him and Thayne clucked under his breath as he read. “So, Rudy is thinking about marriage to one Beatrice Schuster. Pretty thing. I’m sure that’s a relief to his parents.”

“Or a threat to someone who doesn’t want him to marry.” Fox returned to her seat and sat down with a sigh. “Let’s allow that delightful tidbit to ferment for a while in the F & H and get back to the Peebles connection. Rudy was only seven when Ashley Peebles was murdered,” said Lea, looking at the family tree she’d designed.

“That’s right.”

“So he was only two or so when his brothers were killed?”

“Let me check,” Nick rustled the papers. “That’s right. Anthony Jr., the oldest son, was almost 21, and Randy just 19. What a bloody shame.”

“I wonder what the two boys were like?” pondered Lea. Her landline rang shrilly. It was Officer Phelps. She listened intently and then smiled. “You’re a pip,” she said.

“What’s up?” Nick asked.

“Guess who’s heading for the morgue as we speak?”

“Anthony Montanari!”

She grinned, pushing her glasses up. “Time for a road trip, Thayne, and bring the copy of the note found with Connie’s body. I think Anthony just might be interested.”

Lea despised mortuaries almost as much as hospitals. The only reason she didn’t hate them more than hospitals was because they, at least, didn’t try to delude the family that a person might get better. Hospitals seemed to generate pain, and if they made a goof, this is where you ended up.

A line of mourners drifted out of the mortuary, their cars moving sullenly through the parking lot. Every adult used a pair of concealing sunglasses to disguise their grief, and the somber black outfits looked depressive and dismal in the waning sunshine. Lea felt sad just looking at them. Montanari’s Buick, black and sleek and costing a small fortune, was already parked under a palm tree. His vehicle was hard to miss, since the license plate read ‘
Taterman’

Thayne followed the limping Fox into the foyer. Its bright stained glass gave the interior a churchlike feel. Nick hesitated, not sure which way to head.

“They keep the bodies ready for viewing in the small chapel to the right.” Fox’s eyes were way too bright and her hands shook. Of course, she would know
exactly
where the caskets were located.

Thayne pushed open the swinging door to find Anthony leaning over the corpse. He lifted Thad’s right hand, revealing the missing finger. “Just like the other,” he muttered to himself. He replaced the mayor’s hand and gasped upon noticing the pair observing him intently.

“What are you doing here?” he barked, not even trying to be cordial.

“We just wanted to say goodbye to the mayor since we will be probably be working during his actual funeral,” stated Nick, smiling. “My name is Inspector Nick Thayne and this . . .”

“I know who you are. You’re the snoops Rollins was forced to hire while Chung recuperates!”

Thayne ignored his rudeness. “So, I guess you couldn’t make the funeral later this week, either? That’s why you’re here?”

“He was a good friend,” said Anthony stiffly.

Lea had not seen him in years, and the interim had not been kind. Fifty pounds overweight, his once-black hair was almost totally gray. Lea noted his fingernails were bitten to the quick and a huge gold nugget ring glimmered on his pinky finger. His clothes, though expensive, hung poorly on his portly frame.

“So, you were in school with Thad?” asked Nick.

“No, but I supported his campaign twelve years ago when he was running for mayor.”

“Supported it well, I take it?” commented Lea.

Anthony Montanari frowned. Women who didn’t know their place deserved a sharp slap. “Political campaign donations aren’t made common knowledge. It’s Ms. Fox, isn’t it?”

“That’s my name.”

“Jeremy Fox’s kid?”

“That’s right.

Anthony was a blunt as she. “He was whacked a couple years ago, wasn’t he? Made for interesting reading on an otherwise boring Sunday morning. Did Clements Mortuary handle the services for you, as well?”

Thayne wasn’t sure he had witnessed such cruelty in the flesh before and understood Trish Fisher’s hatred of the man much more clearly.

Fox swallowed stiffly, but as usual, wasn’t to be outdone. “The note, Thayne.”

Nick actually enjoyed handing it to her.

“What do you make of this, Mr. Montanari?” she said icily.

Anthony Montanari’s face blanched and his hands trembled. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.

Lea moved closer to the casket. “Tucked in Connie Fisher’s ear so it couldn’t be missed. You have a son named Rudolph, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do, but what of it?”

Lea seemed the picture of innocence, but Thayne knew her by now. “Just thought the
red-nosed reindeer
might somehow be a warning to you?”

“That’s a load of crap.” Anthony leaned over the body, which was set out upon royal blue velvet in the most exquisite silver and wood casket. Thad Fisher’s face appeared smooth and expressionless, his wrinkles having disappeared. A smart blue suit, red power tie, and expensive leather shoes gave the impression that the ex-mayor was somehow in control. It was amazing how genie morticians can work magic.

“So, when will Chung recover?” snapped Montanari, distancing himself from the casket and the two detectives.

“Soon, I’m sure,” said Nick mildly, intensely disliking the older man. “I’ll let him know you’re concerned with his health.”

“So, you found a ring on Thad’s finger, didn’t you?”

“Now, how would you know that?” said Nick, watching the agricultural giant’s face carefully.

“Let’s just say a friend told me, and I have
lots
of friends.” The implication was clear.

“In the police department?” chirped Lea.

“Maybe. Let’s just say that Chief Rollins is a buddy of mine, so what he told me in casual conversation is not a crime.”

“Maybe not a crime, but it’s a little unusual for you to have access to that information, since it wasn’t released to the papers,” stated Lea. She had totally regained her composure and stared Anthony Sr. right back in the face.

“Ashley Peebles was killed on my property, as were Thad and his girlfriend. It seems to me that I have a
right
to know.”

“So, you knew Ashley then?” declared Fox.

“Rollins was right when he said you were a first-class bitch. Let’s just say I knew who she was. She wore really short skirts and liked
all
the boys, if you catch my drift. And at least she was a looker.” He sneered at Fox.

Nick interrupted whatever retort Lea had ready. “Have any idea who might have killed the mayor?”

“Yeah. It was that Negro hit man. And I know why. Even Roger Chung was aware that Thad loved to gamble. He flew to Vegas at least a couple times a month and liked to live high on the hog. I’d say he got behind on some debts and paid the big price to the lenders.”

“Did Thad know Ashley?” asked Thayne.

“Now, that I don’t know, but Thad sure liked the women—that
everyone
knew, even his poor wife. I’ve seen enough.”

A somberly dressed woman with a strange, still face stepped into the viewing hall.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Fisher had visitors.” She slammed the casket’s half lid down before continuing primly. “It’s customary for guests to check at the reception desk before viewing the deceased.” Her pin indicated her name as Helen Clyde.

“Don’t worry.” Anthony hitched a finger at the deceased. “Thad here didn’t mind the visit.” He pushed by the irritated woman. Mrs. Clyde had no choice but to turn her attentions to Fox and Thayne.

“We apologize,” said Nick quickly. “We didn’t mean to disturb the sanctity of this place.”

The middle-aged woman nodded curtly and motioned them towards the exit.

Lea followed Thayne out to his shiny Mustang and Nick waited until she was strapped in. “Don’t you find it a little strange he visited the corpse when it was clear he really didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“He was checking out the missing finger.”

“But why?”

“What if the missing fingers weren’t trophies like Steven suspects?” said Fox. “Serial killers often take souvenirs, but if this
isn’t
a serial killer—as I believe—then what is the use of cutting off the fingers?”

“As a warning?” speculated Thayne.

“That’s it. The killer wants someone to take heed and know they meant business. They added the letter just to make sure the intended got the message.”

“The intended as in Anthony Montanari?”

“Makes sense to me.”

Nick started the engine, which purred like the kitten it was. “I wonder if Dr. Koh has finished his examination of Connie’s finger. You mind heading over there, Fox?”

“Not at all.” Lea suddenly witnessed the strangest expression pass over Nick’s face.

“Déjà vu?”

“Something like that. You got any photos of Montanari’s three boys?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Meanwhile, let’s see what Steven’s been up to.”

“So, what have you got, Doc?” asked Nick.

“There is nothing unusual about the finger, though it is clearly Connie’s. Tissue type is an exact match. The finger has been detached at least five days. As you can see, the capillaries have dried up, but none of that is very interesting.”

“It isn’t?” asked Lea, watching Steven poke the gray finger with a steel instrument.

“Nope. It’s the can that’s interesting. A light coat of lip-gloss surrounds the tab. Connie’s lipstick was scarlet, just like her fingernails. I believe the killer or perhaps even killers drank from the can before depositing the finger inside.

“So the killer’s a woman?” asked Nick.

“Not necessarily. This isn’t your normal, everyday brand of lip-gloss.”

“It isn’t?” asked Lea, not being very familiar with cosmetics.