Jay Giles (12 page)
Even Ann’s warning didn’t faze me. I was elated. I’d taken a big first step in getting the various factions fighting each other instead of me. I wasn’t out of trouble by any stretch of the imagination, but I hadn’t had anything positive to build on in so long that I wanted to savor this.
Maybe that’s why, when Tory called at four o’clock to let me know she had information on the guy who shot Eddie, I impetuously asked her to dinner.
She didn’t jump at the invitation. “What’s this about?”
“I had my second meeting with D’Onifrio. I’m still among the living and feel like celebrating my good fortune. Dinner by myself won’t be much fun. We need to talk. Why not over dinner?”
She hesitated. “All right.”
“Charlie’s Crab at eight?”
“How about eight-thirty? That would be better for me.”
“That’s fine. I’ll meet you there. Thanks, Tory.”
I finished what I was doing, drove back to my condo, took a shower, and changed into some fresh clothes. Even taking my time, I was at the restaurant by eight-fifteen.
Charlie, owner and host, greeted me. He was a small man with slicked-back hair and a waxed moustache, as always dressed in a tux. “Mr. Seattle, good to see you.” He looked around by my feet. “Where is Eddie?”
The pain returned like a fist to the chest. “I lost him,” I said, trying not to turn maudlin. “An accident.”
“I am sorry. Dinner is on me tonight.”
“Thank you, Charlie, but you don’t have to do that.”
“I insist. Please.”
“I am meeting someone, so—”
Charlie’s eyes lit up. “A woman. Even better. I will have a bottle of champagne sent over.”
“No. No. No. Charlie, this is a business dinner. She’ll get the wrong idea if champagne shows up.”
He nodded. “I understand. Dinner for you both, however, is on the house. Let me show you to your table.” I followed him to a secluded spot by a window with a bay view. “Is this businesslike enough?” He grinned impishly.
“It’s great. Thanks.”
“I will watch for your business friend.” He stroked his moustache. “I’m sure she’s fat, ugly, with warts.”
I laughed at his feeble ploy to pry information out of me. “Then you’d be wrong. She’s attractive. But this is a business dinner.”
He put his hands up by his face as if to say I believe you even though it was obvious that he didn’t. When he brought Tory to the table, it was even more obvious.
She didn’t look like a business dinner. She was dressed in black again. A tight black tank top, black stretch pants, black heels. She was wearing gold hoop earrings, hot pink lipstick, her hair pulled back and tied at the base of her neck with a pink scarf. Hardly business attire.
She took her seat, Charlie presented her with a menu, took drink orders—water with lemon (hers) and Diet Coke (mine)—and departed.
She glanced at the menu, looked up at me.
“Let’s order,” I suggested. “We can talk while we eat. Dinner is on Charlie, so don’t be shy. He likes women with appetites.”
“Really? I would have thought women were not what Charlie found attractive.”
“Wow, you are a detective.”
“It’s a gift, these powers of deduction.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“He likes you.”
“Too bad. The powers have failed you. He liked Eddie.”
“The powers tell me it wasn’t Eddie. Anyway, he’s a cat man.”
“Cats? You think Charlie has cats?”
“Absolutely.”
The waiter arrived with our drinks. I asked him if Charlie could visit the table for a moment. The waiter left, and Charlie materialized in a flash.
“Charlie, I have a question.”
“But of course.”
“Do you have cats?”
“Cats?” He gave each of us a puzzled look, stroked his moustache. “Yes, I have three cats. Why?”
I looked at Tory. She was trying to keep a straight face.
“Ms. Wright,” I nodded at Tory, “was recommending I get a cat. What do you think?”
Charlie looked at me, squinted his eyes, pursed his lips. Finally, he said, “No, I don’t think so. I don’t see you as a cat person. Sorry.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
“Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” He turned, and sashayed away.
Tory was trying not to laugh or look smug.
“Okay, you win.”
She broke into a broad smile. “The three magic words every girl wants to hear.”
I opened my menu.
“What do you recommend?” Tory asked.
“I think I’m going to have the grilled grouper.”
She started to put her menu down. Our waiter, ever vigilant, arrived at the table the moment her menu closed. Once we’d ordered and the waiter had departed, I said, “Tell me about the shooter.”
She dug in her black bag, pulled out a legal pad, studied it. “That monogram you spotted identified him. WW stands for William Wilder.” She looked over at me as if that name should mean something to me. Not getting a reaction, she continued. “He’s also known as Wild Will or Willie the Kid. He’s got quite a reputation as a hit man. The police think he’s been responsible for more than twenty deaths the last three years. D’Onifrio reputedly uses him to get people out of his way.”
“Out of his way? What does that mean?”
“These businesses around the state that Shore now owns weren’t all smooth acquisitions. If a major stockholder or officer of the company objected, he or she disappeared or had an accident. Wilder’s work. It’s also believed he’s responsible for the deaths of Judge Richard D. Clayton and State Senator Mark Kraski, who headed a committee looking into organized crime in
Florida
. The D.E.A. believes he killed three of their operatives who tried to infiltrate D’Onifrio’s organization.”
“Was he arrested for any of those deaths?”
She shook her head. “Never charged. No evidence. The D.E.A. knows D’Onifrio has other professional killers in his organization. They can’t be one hundred percent certain it was Wilder.”
Our waiter returned carrying a bottle of wine and silver bucket of ice.
“What’s this?”
“Charlie said you didn’t want champagne, but he thought a good white wine would accent your dinner.” He placed the ice bucket on the table, presented the unopened bottle, used his corkscrew, and splashed a taste in my glass.
It was good.
He filled both glasses, put the bottle in the ice bucket, and departed.
“Listen,” there was an edge in Tory’s voice, “I thought this was business. If you’ve got something else in mind, I’m not interested. I’ve been burned. I’m not going to let it happen again.”
“I hear you. Let me assure you this is business. Charlie knows I’m by myself. He’s trying to play matchmaker. That’s all. I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“As long as we understand what the rules are here.”
“Strictly business.”
The assurances seemed to settle her a little. “Tell me about your meetings with D’Onifrio.”
I needed to settle down, too. Her revelations about Wilder and overreaction to the wine had unnerved me. Talking was as good a way as any to regain my composure. “I was expecting D’Onifrio to be the kind of bad guy you see on TV. He wasn’t. He’s more polished, more intelligent. At our first meeting, I was surprised by how pleasant he was. Of course, he probably thought I was there to deliver the stocks. When I floated my marriage idea instead, he got angry. Said something cryptic about outside forces I didn’t understand. After that, he calmed down, said he’d consider it.”
“So you had a second meeting.”
I nodded. “Again, he was very pleasant, offered me a cigar.” I took a sip of wine. “He told me his depositors wanted the money back but didn’t want to attract a lot of attention, so he was willing to give my marriage idea a try. When I heard him say that, I thought I was out of the woods.”
“It’s never that easy.”
“No, it’s not. I thought D’Onifrio would use my idea, have his people execute it. He had a different take. He said because it was my idea, I’d pull it off better than anyone else.”
“Some truth to that.”
“I don’t know. Having an idea is one thing. Making it work—especially when it involves one of D’Onifrio’s people, our potential groom—is something else entirely.”
Our salads arrived.
“So what are you going to do?” she asked around a bite of salad.
I played with my fork. “I don’t have any choice. I’ve got to arrange this marriage.”
“Can you do that?”
“This woman is a professional gold digger. If we dangle a very wealthy—I mean very wealthy—old guy in front of her, I think she’ll pounce on him.”
“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”
I finished a bite of salad. “You mean because she’s a bereaved widow?”
She nodded.
“Consolation in her grief, that’s what our guy has to offer her. Maybe he’s lost all his brothers to heart attacks and knows he doesn’t have much time. Wouldn’t hurt to have him casually mention something like that.”
“You mean like, ‘Hi, I don’t have long to live. Would you like to marry me and my millions?’”
I grinned. “Something like that, but more obvious. I’m convinced that if we set the bait properly, we’ll hook her fast.”
She put her fork down. “You keep saying we, like I’m involved in this. I’m not.”
