Murder by Candlelight (9 page)

"What's Susan got that I
haven't?"

Touchy. Enough for Z to
take care what he said. For instance, it wouldn't be a good idea to
say that the difference between the two women was that, while he'd
enjoyed
making
love to Jamie, he was
in love
with Susan.

Meanwhile, time was marching
on.

"I think I'd like to meet Susan,"
Jamie said at last. "Maybe you're right. Maybe she's
terrific."

"I ...." Z had begun to sweat,
something he seemed to do more frequently.

"Not a good idea."

"You don't have to be there, Z. Just
Susan and me. Girl talk. Just to get to know each other a little
better. After all, we've got a lot in common."

Was there any way Jamie
could find out enough about Susan to trace her down? Z was
thinking, and thinking fast! The way Jamie discovered there
was
a Susan was Z had a
picture of Susan in his wallet, Jamie "lifting" his billfold, going
through it to find Susan's picture, signed, Susan. Signed Susan,
with Susan's phone number, an
old
number, thank God! A "dead" number plus no last
name.

Still, no one knew better than Z that
Jamie was resourceful ....

For a wild moment, Z thought of
threatening Jamie -- how, he didn't know. ... Quickly gave it up.
He didn't know how to sweet talk her either.

"That concludes our little talk, I
think," Jamie said brightly.

On the other hand,
sinister
was what Z did
best. "Listen," Z hissed. "It wouldn't be smart of you to bother
Susan."

"Don't threaten
me
, Buster." Said less
in anger than with amusement. "You may be bigger than me, but I'm
the toughest little bitch north of the border." She laughed
sweetly. "So, having made one mistake, you've just made another.
You've upped the ante. And here's my call. I was going to settle
for meeting Susan. No revealed confidences. I wasn't going to kiss
and tell, if that's what you're worried about. And I still won't do
that. But now, just meeting Susan won't be enough." She paused,
thinking, "The only thing I'll settle for now, is seeing the bed
you two make love in."

"What?!"

"Want to try to threaten me again and
see what I come up with next?" This time, there was a long pause.
"I thought not. Better quit while you're behind, Z." A laugh and
the click of Jamie's receiver in the phone cradle.

Crazy! Crazy, the only explanation Z
could come up with as he fumbled down his own receiver.

The girl was mad.

Wanting to meet Susan?

Wanting to see the
bed
Z and Susan slept
in? ............

What a relief!

It was that last request
that had done it: convinced Z that Jamie was only joking. An
unmerciful kidder, little Jamie Stewart. Maybe she'd been serious
about wanting to
meet
Susan; probably had in mind running into Susan and Z in a
store -- accidentally on purpose. Would have enjoyed making Z
squirm for fear Jamie would spill the beans.

But to actually demand to
see the
bed
....!?

Ridiculous.

Just kidding.

Had to be.

Z took a deep breath. Jamie Stewart
was a ball of fire in more ways than one.

A fire, fortunately, that had ... gone
out.

Two phone calls in one day. One right
after the other.

Unprecedented. ..........

Where was he? Oh, yes.
Reviewing his
other
problem.

It was while going over his talk with
'the D.J.' once more, that Z remembered something he'd barely heard
the first time, a suggestion that the radio guy had slipped into
the conversation. When bringing up the example of Howard Kunkle's
death, Jewell had advanced the supposition that the murder might be
Mafia-related.

A possibility that had never occurred
to Z!

Not that Kunkle's
death
had been a mob
hit, of course -- though Jewell may have had that in mind. No. What
was troubling Z was the possibility Kunkle
himself
had mob
connections.

Leading Z to ask himself if he'd been
... at least partly responsible ... for the death of a mob
figure.

As far as Kunkle's death was
concerned, Z was pretty much off the legal hook for that, the cops
so pressed for time with other nasty business that the Kunkle case
was already in the "cold case" file.

Interfere with "family" business,
though, and you'd better watch your back ... forever!

Could it even be -- this being what
everyone always said, a small, small world -- that Kunkle had been
one of Johnny Dosso's boys?

Z didn't like
that
thought. Didn't
like it at all!

Taking another minute to think about a
possible Cosa Nostra connection helped to cool Z's fear. There's
been no sign of organized crime activity in Howard Kunkle's place.
No drugs. Some hidden cash, but small change in the drug business.
True, there'd been those decks of cards. Could indicate Kunkle was
a gambler, gambling and hookers John Dosso's part of the "family"
business. Could be a rackets connection ... but Z didn't think so,
mostly because Kunkle lived in a dump. While big-time crime
couldn't promise you a future, it seemed to pay well in the
present.

Still ... just to be on the safe side
......

And Z was up and shuffling to the
office's flimsy front door.

* * * * *

Entering the south end of the Antioch
Shopping Center mall ten minutes later, Z was still so upset he'd
practically stolen a pay phone. (Done that by scaring off a
sub-human-looking teenage boy.)

Feeling ashamed of himself but
rattling in his quarter nevertheless, Z dialed International
Imports.

"International Imports." Always a
cultured, older female voice.

"A musketeer would like to speak to
John Dosso, please."

"I'm sorry, sir. No one of that name
works for International Imports."

"Sorry," Z said, hanging
up.

All part of the routine.
Johnny Dosso
never
worked for International Imports. The way it worked was this.
Because of John's fear someone would tap Z's office phone, if Z
wanted to talk to John, Z would go to a pay phone and call
International. Hear, once again, that John didn't work
there.

After that, Z would return
to his office, someone calling within the hour with another phone
number. (Always a different number. No sense memorizing it.)
Leaving to find yet
another
pay phone, Z would dial the mysterious second
number to find John on the other end of the line.

That being the arrangement, Z went
back to his office to wait -- a wait that turned into three, long
hours.

Troubling.

So worrisome that, on his way home, Z
put in another call to International Imports. Was again told John
didn't work there.

At 10 o'clock at the outdoor pay phone
at the 72nd and Prospect QuikTrip, Z called again. Same
story.

In the morning, at the Sinclair
station just to the south of the shopping center -- same
thing.

So, where was Johnny Dosso?

Could be on vacation -- John's nerves
seeming to have been shot at the reunion.

Could be out of town on family
business.

Could be holed-up so deep with one of
his young call girls that even his own "family" didn't know where
he was.

Or maybe, given the nature of Johnny's
work, that he was pushing up daisies.

Z was sweating once again. And no
wonder. Within the week, he'd had something to do with a man's
death, had his relationship with his girl threatened, and had a
friend ... evaporate.

Like straddling a
California fault line, when your world rocked, all you could
do
was sweat!

* * * * *

Chapter 5

Finally, Johnny D. had
called. Followed by tonight's adventure, reminding Z of the mission
of
Star Trek
: "To
boldly go where no man [Z] has gone before."

It was a dark night -- dark and hot
and sultry. Clouds had moved in, snuffing out the moon and
stars.

Even from across the street, Z could
make out John's security-- some of it, anyway. A couple of
infra-red, circuit breakers beams; a box near the house that looked
suspiciously like the guts of a motion sensor. Doing some security
installing himself, Z had a better shot than most at spotting the
house's protection.

No sign of a dog. Neither the front or
backyard fenced.

Z remembered. Johnny Dosso didn't like
dogs.

John still lived on North Enrico, in
his parent's house, his parents long gone to meet whatever "Maker"
a crime family had to meet.

Traditional house, traditional
"family" values.

Back to security.

Probably pressure-sensitive pads built
into the decorative rock walkway leading to the front door. That
would have been Z's recommendation, anyway.

With all the curtains and blinds
drawn, no light showed through to interrupt the quiet blackness of
the night. No other indication that the house was
occupied.

Fortunately, Z didn't have to
dismantle the security. This being a social call, Z the invited
guest, all he had to do was get out of the Cavalier and walk right
up to the house. Viewed that way, tripping the alarms was the
friendly thing to do. Showed sincerity.

And still Z sat in the little car,
looking at the house from across the street. Was John looking back?
Did John have the latest in classified, "army surplus" night vision
equipment? If so, it wouldn't be a surprise. John always seemed to
get whatever he wanted.

Z was hesitating, he told
himself, because it was bad for John's image to be visited by an
"out of the family" friend, moreover, a friend who was a private
eye. Z
also
didn't want whoever might be watching John's house to
see
Z
.

Another fifteen minutes of
watchful waiting went by, Z convinced that, at least on
this
night, he watched
the Dosso house alone.

Good.

Opening the greased-silent door catch,
Z eased himself out of the car, feeling ... strange. In all the
years of their friendship, Z had never visited the Dosso home.
Except for an occasional phone call, Johnny Dosso lived in a closed
society.

Pushing the door shut, Z crossed the
street, jolted his leg over the curbing, and strode up the front
walk.

Nice yard, what Z could see of it in
black silhouette: trees, with shadow pools of river rock around
their trunks -- bushes, plantings.

The place smelled of new-cut grass, a
variety of flowers, chemical fertilizer, and recently applied
insecticide.

Not John Dosso's handiwork, the place
with that "professional lawn care" look.

No trumpeted medieval knight made a
grander entrance, Z was sure, meaning that silent alarms inside the
house must be going off like crazy.

At the carved-wood-looking, solid
steel door, Z was just ready to push the lighted buzzer when the
door opened.

"Z!" Johnny Dosso, grinning. "Come on
in!"

John standing to the side, Z entered,
John shutting the heavy door and easing a thick bolt into its iron
keeper. "Here you are in the flesh," John said, the two of them
shaking hands before John turned to lead Z down the long, formal,
laser guarded entrance hall and into a blue-walled living room
where John motioned Z into a plush armchair to the near side of a
fireplace, Johnny Dosso easing his bulk on a short divan not that
far away.

Called a conversation "pit," this
space was fronted by a huge, cut-stone, never-had-a-fire-in-it
fireplace.

A number of dried cattails stuck up
from a blue Japanese vase placed on the floor beside the firebox
screen. The room was done in blues, expensive blue-flocked
wallpaper for starters. Z sat in a gold-and-blue-striped
Thomasville chair with saddlebag arms, John, in a matching love
seat on the same side of the fireplace. A twisted-brass lamp and an
antique clock decorated an early American table beside Z's chair.
At the other end of the room was a blue velvet, sofa-for-ten, over
it, five small pictures, possibly framed pages from an illuminated
manuscript. A complex-patterned Persian rug covering the dark wood
floor near the end wall, an ornate walnut sideboard centered on the
rug.

The wood fireplace mantle held a tin
ocean liner (an object d'art made to look like a toy,) two brass
candlesticks, and three softball-sized rattan spheres. The oil
painting over the mantle was of lions lying down with
lambs.