The 56th Man (15 page)

He was standing in the garage door, trying to
create a draft to let smoke out of the house, when the cruiser
pulled up to the curb. As soon as the doors swung open, Ari
signaled to them to bring their car up the driveway to avoid
getting wet.

"Appreciate that," the officer on the
passenger side said after lowering his window. He sniffed.
"Something burning?"

Ari immediately recognized him and the driver
as the two who had deposited a small wreath against the mailbox
post on his first day in the Riggins house. They were younger than
his own forty years, but they weren't kids. Early to
mid-thirties.

Howie Nottoway had told him these were the
first men on the scene after the Riggins massacre.

"I had a mishap with my stove," Ari explained
with an inward wince. The Chinese fishmonger might have put the
fear of chefs everywhere in him, but he had had no choice but to
use the Jenn-Air if he wanted his carp fresh. Even if he had owned
a barbecue, cooking outside in this weather would have been
impracticable. Everything seemed to go swimmingly after Ari
pre-heated the grill element of the Jenn-Air and laid out his
hard-won catch. Then the kitchen began to fill with smoke. Some of
it was sucked down the stove's central vent, but not nearly enough
to keep pace with the growing cloud. Only by opening every
downstairs door and window, and ultimately the garage doors, could
he clear away the air of smoke and fish smell.

In the end, though, he had met with
reasonable success. He unfolded the aluminum foil and pinched off a
bite. Not the best he'd ever had, but his taste buds howled with
delight. He had been intending to close all the doors and windows
(ignoring any puddles that might have collected indoors) and brave
the rain, taking the fish out to the gazebo. The best place to eat
masgouf was at the riverside, no matter what the weather.

Now it appeared the carp would grow cold
before he got beyond that lone nibble. But this was an opportunity
too good to miss. He had planned for it, in fact, when he told Fred
to remove the wreath from the base of the mailbox. It's replacement
was on the back seat of the prowl car, next to a pair of dark serge
caps in vinyl rain protectors.

"Please..." Ari made a gesture of welcome,
encouraging the two men to get out of the car. They appeared
reluctant.

"Actually, Mr. Ciminon, we just wanted a
quick word." The officer on the passenger side attempted a
courteous smile. The result was like the sharp edge of a newly
opened can.

"Thank you."

The officer gave him a quizzical look.

"For pronouncing my name correctly. Your
Detective Carrington seems to have...difficulty with it."

"He's not
my
detective," the driver groused. His hands had
remained on the steering wheel. In fact, the engine was still
running, forcing them all to raise their voices to be
heard.

"Please..." Ari entreated. "I find it awkward
to be speaking down to you like this. You must find it difficult,
in that position..."

The inference--that they were humbling
themselves by remaining seated in the car--hit just the right note.
The driver switched off the engine and they got out.

"Nice box," said the one nearest Ari,
grinning at the Scion, which looked punier than ever next to the
souped-up cruiser.

"It gets me to the ABC store and back," Ari
shrugged.

The officer who had commented on the xB
chuckled. The driver, on the other hand, summoned up a deep scowl.
Opposite personalities. Could Ari use this to his advantage? Or
would it make his task more difficult?

"Officer..." Ari leaned forward slightly, as
though using the gravity of his body to draw out the policeman's
name. Both officers were wearing rain slickers, their badge numbers
and identity tags hidden underneath.

"Mangioni," said the policeman standing
closest to Ari. His dark hair was just long enough to have been
disheveled when he removed his hat and tossed it in the back seat.
He offered up another thin smile. Friendliness seemed to be a
painful duty for him, but at least he was trying.

"A fellow countryman?" Ari inquired.

"Three generations removed," Mangioni
answered dubiously, his eyes flicking off Ari's face, or more
accurately Ari's complexion. Yes. Several generations and a million
North African immigrants ago. Mangioni gave a little laugh. "My
people never considered Sicily part of Italy."

Ari nodded in amusement. "And my people
returned the sentiment."

"Jackson," the other policeman barked from
the other side of the cruiser, apparently annoyed by the foreign
convocation.

"A very American name," Ari nodded
sagely.

"Hamburgers, pizza, French fries and
doughnuts," Mangioni said, describing his partner by the food he
ate--all of foreign origin and suitably altered to American
tastes.

"We just were wondering..." Jackson verbally
nudged Mangioni, who nodded and dropped the painful smile.

"Mr. Ciminon, about those flowers on the
curb...do they bother you?"

Even with the engine off, Mangioni had to
raise his voice against the din of rain on the driveway a few feet
away. His words were transformed into hollow echoes on the bare
walls of the garage.

"Not at all," Ari said. "I was surprised my
groundskeeper removed them. They're intended as a memorial to the
family that lived here before me?"

"Yes."

"You knew them well?"

"Not very well..."

"We didn't know them jack squat," Jackson
said more succinctly, fumbling at the radio on his collar. The rain
slicker made it difficult.

"Then this is the policy of your local
government? I mean, to place these memorials...?"

"It's not standard departmental procedure,"
Mangioni said.

"Then someone asked you to..." Ari gingerly
prodded. "Or ordered you--"

"Ha!" Jackson's exclamation rang out like a
shot. He had unclipped his radio and was holding it to his ear.

"We got the shooter?" Mangioni asked his
partner.

"Hell no. Bob says Big C is walking around
offering a reward to anyone who admits offing three lowlifes."

Three dead? Ari doubted the manager or
clientele had, in a fit of civic rage, finished off the last
robber. He was sure the chopstick in the young man's throat wasn't
fatal. Most likely, in his haste, Ari had rapped him too hard on
the side of the head with his knuckles.

"Any luck?" Mangioni asked.

Jackson shook his head and re-clipped his
radio. "A million witnesses, and no one saw nothing. No security
video, either."

Dummy cameras, just as Ari had guessed--or
rather, hoped. And the manager was keeping his word. A good thing,
too. Police were always getting 'mixed up'. It came with the job.
And the inclination.

"Just our luck," Mangioni said. "Three stiffs
and Big C gets a dose of hero worship."

Jackson let his facial expression speak for
itself. Was he disgusted with the three corpses, or Big C? Could
Big C be Carrington?

"The flowers..."

Mangioni cocked a brow at his partner. "We do
it as a favor."

Jackson circled to the front of the prowl car
and stared at the Scion as though it was a physical manifestation
of Mangioni's answer.

"This person must have had a very high
opinion of the Riggins family," said Ari.

"Big C is goofy on them."

Mangioni's eyelids performed the equivalent
of a stutter. "Jackson means yes," he said, as though Ari obviously
needed help translating this difficult passage. "He spent a lot of
his free hours with them, not that he had many of those."

"Works hard?"

"Carrington? Like a dog."

Big C. Carrington. Ari nodded and smiled.
"Commendable."

"My ass," said Jackson.

"For Christ's sake--"

"Big C hung out around here because of the
Massington fortune," Jackson said, reaching under his slicker. He
pulled out a pack of cigarettes and pointed it at Ari. "You don't
mind, do you? You already got plenty of smoke around here."

"Not at all," said Ari, taking out his
Winstons--and smiling through his deflation. His primary theory had
just gone up...well, in smoke. Massington must be Moria Riggins'
maiden name. Ari did not think her inheritance had been enormous.
This house was very nice, but millions would have bought
better.

Mangioni squinched his nose at his partner.
"Aren't you due for a physical soon?"

"Already had it. A little bloody phlegm. No
cause for alarm." As Jackson lit up, he gave Ari a grin that wasn't
really all that pleasant, though Ari sensed it was
well-intentioned. He lit up one of his own and their smoke mingled.
The unity of addiction. "We can't even smoke in the car."

"Thank God," Mangioni said fervently.

"All those hours sitting around, and no
smoking? Can you fucking believe that?"

Ari considered a comment on the fantasy of
American freedom, then decided that would be the wrong toe to step
on--especially when the one doing the stepping was a foreigner. He
shrugged noncommittally.

"Would you like to come inside?" he
asked.

"Actually..." Mangioni began. "Now we know
you don't mind the flowers--"

"You're curious about what happened."

Jackson's bald observation clipped away much
of the sham Ari had intended to employ. "Yes. Very much so. You
understand..."

"I understand you're a ghoul, like the rest
of us. Don't go mealy, partner," Jackson responded to Mangioni's
pained expression. "Ninety-percent of the force gets off on 'the
dark side'. Let's go in. Mr. Ciminon wants the modus operandi. And
don't quote chapter and verse to me. Mr. Ciminon isn't going to run
to the newsies with any new details we might give him. He doesn't
strike me as wanting too much attention. Am I right?"

Ari nodded emphatically.

Mangioni's only protest was a reduction of
his already-thin smile. He was the public relations half of the
team, the beaming face of the Force. Once the need for a cheerful
front was eliminated, the wind went out of him. He doffed his
slicker and began folding it neatly.

"Good idea," said Jackson, removing his own
rain gear and tossing it on the hood of the cruiser.

As Ari led them inside, he asked about the
Neighborhood Watch signs he had seen in the area, including the one
at the turn-off to Beach Court.

"Made up of concerned citizens," Mangioni
explained. "They take turns patrolling the area and call us in if
they spot anything suspicious. They're volunteers, and
unarmed."

"The concept has been recently introduced in
my country," Ari said with a small smile. "Were there any calls
from the Neighborhood Watch on the night of the killings?"

"No."

"It's mostly put-up," Jackson snorted. "For
show. Hardly anyone wants to get off their lazy ass that late at
night."

Ari paused at the open door leading inside
and made a small gesture, palm down. Jackson strode inside.
Mangioni hesitated, then followed him through the small corridor
leading to the kitchen. Jackson looked neither right nor left, but
Ari thought Mangioni threw a glance at the back door. For the
moment, though, Ari wanted to pursue the current topic.

"You have a cat?" Jackson asked, noting the
dishes decorated with paw prints on the kitchen floor.

"I hope so.'' Ari had completely forgotten
about Sphinx when he opened the house up to clear the smoke. "I
bought him at the pet shop, for company."

"You really don't have anyone else coming? No
family? That's too bad. A cat is piss-poor company, you ask me,"
Jackson concluded with a sniff of disdain.

"I have a cat," Mangioni reminded him.

"Yeah. Sometimes I think you got furballs,
too. Anyway, you've got a wife to scoop the poop for you."

"I wanted to keep him inside," Ari sighed.
"To get him acclimated to his new home. But when I opened the door
to let in fresh air...the last I saw, he was running for the
woods."

"Too bad," said Mangioni solicitously.

"Consider yourself lucky if it drowns in the
river," said Jackson. "But it'll be back before you know it. You've
been feeding it. Once a cat knows where the food is, you have to
shoot it to get rid of it."

"That's very reassuring," said Ari. He leaned
down and pointed out the small window above the sink. "I was
wondering...is Howie Nottoway over there a member of the local
Neighborhood Watch?"

Jackson glanced at Mangioni, who shrugged
back at him. "Don't know. Could be."

"Wasn't it Nottoway who called in to complain
about those fireworks on the island?"

"Oh yeah," Mangioni said slowly, but not
reluctantly. "But that was a citizen complaint, not the Watch. I
don't think...hell, it was almost two years ago."

"He never called back?" Ari asked. "About
those fireworks?"

"I don't think so."

Either Howie had grown accustomed to the
Whistling Jupiters, or had decided the police would do nothing
about them. Just as pertinent, if Howie was a member of the
Neighborhood Watch, and was patrolling the area the night he
called, he could very well have been up and about when the killers
entered the Riggins house.

"But you don't think it was Nottoway who made
the anonymous call?"

"You mean that night?" Jackson said. "Who
knows? That call was made to Crimestoppers. It's a special 800
number. No recording, no tracing." He grinned at Mangioni. "Sort of
like confession."

"Hell no," Mangioni shot back. "The priest
doesn't run off to the cops after hearing all the gory
details."

"Presumably the caller knew he would remain
unknown?"

"Everyone knows how Crimestoppers works,"
said Jackson.

"And if the killer himself called, identified
himself, and described the crime he had just committed...?"