Unknown Remains (17 page)

THIRTY-TWO

“It's a double,” Ted Lafrance said.

Coming into the room, looking at two naked white guys, bodies bent and angled in death on the blood-soaked king-size bed, Marquis Brown said, “How'd you figure that out?”

Ted Lafrance frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I'm fucking with you, rookie. Who are they?”

“Guy on the right's Joseph Sculley, the condo owner. Other one's Patrick Linehan, the building doorman.

Marquis studied the scene. The murders had the look of a pro, shot precisely, one round in the forehead, one in the heart. There was a window above the headboard, Marquis looking out at Lower Manhattan, still not used to the big opening in the skyline the Trade Center had occupied.

“I think it was a love triangle,” Ted Lafrance said. “Sculley's wife came home unexpectedly, found them in the marital bed, lost it, pulled a semiautomatic.”

Marquis shook his head. “Why do you say that?”

“Knowing what I do, that's what it looks like.”

Huh? Marquis was thinking. “You an expert on love triangles?” Ted—smart as he thought he was—was a dumb motherfucker when it came to solving murders.

“It's an assumption, a supposition.”

“I know what it means,” Marquis said. “What else you got?”

“One of the tenants, Charlene Lemmer, remembers seeing two guys talking to the doorman in the lobby about six o'clock, and the three of them got in the elevator together.”

“Think one of them could be the shooter?”

“I don't know.” Ted was five-five, the shoulders of his blazer covered with dandruff.

“Call Ms. Lemmer,” Marquis said. “I want to talk to her.”

“I suggest we divide and conquer. I'll question Charlene Lemmer. You talk to the other witnesses.”

“Hold on. You said only one person saw them talking to the doorman? Now you saying they're others?”

“There's bound to be, don't you think? I mean, it's a busy time of day, people are coming home from work, people are going out for drinks and dinner.”

“How many tenants in the building?”

“No idea.”

“Why don't you go find that out, leave the Q and A to me.” Marquis took out a notebook. “What's Mr. Sculley's profession?”

“He's a lawyer.” Ted handed Marquis a business card. “Works for Baskin Williams, one of the top firms in the city.”

“Isn't that what you were gonna be, a lawyer?”

“I am a lawyer.”

“What the hell you doing with homicide?”

“This is more interesting, and I want to make a difference.”

Ted walked out of the room, saying he was going to call the witness, set up a time to talk. Marquis wrote the crime scene report, noting the positions of the bodies, the gunshot wounds, the degree of rigor, the four shell casings on the floor that Ted had tagged with orange Post-it notes. A white shirt and dark slacks had been tossed on an antique trunk at the foot of the bed. There was no mystery. He could see the manner of death and ruled it a homicide.

“Charlene Lemmer's gonna meet you in the lobby at four thirty,” Ted said, coming back in the bedroom.

Marquis glanced at him. “What's she look like?”

“Bottle blonde, a little on the chunky side.”

Marquis pictured Patricia Arquette in
True Romance
. “I'll look for her.”

The evidence tech showed up a few minutes later, a pale thin cadaver of a man with jet black hair. Marquis had never met him. The guy said his name was Staley. He walked into the master bedroom and went to work. Marquis went into the study and continued writing his report. He finished at four twenty-five and took the elevator down to the lobby.

When she showed up fifteen minutes late, he didn't think Charlene Lemmer was chunky. Marquis liked women with curves and a booty. After introductions, Marquis said, “Tell me what you saw.”

“Pat, the doorman, talking to two men. I've never seen them before. I'm positive they don't live here.”

“What'd they look like?”

“One was Puerto Rican or Mexican and rough-looking.”

The PR again, Marquis thought. The dude got around.

“His face was a mess. The other one wore jeans and cowboy boots. They didn't go together, that's the first thing I thought.”

“Where'd you see them?”

“Over by the entrance. Pat looked afraid, like they were threatening him, giving him a hard time about something.”

“Did you tell the manager?”

“I didn't have a chance. I went over and got my mail and saw the three of them get in the elevator together.”

“Anyone else there?”

“I saw Al Melfi and Cindy Petty while the two men were talking to Pat.”

Marquis wrote their names in his notebook. “You know them?”

“I see them around. I talk to them at the Christmas party. Al's an ad executive, works for one of the big agencies in town. Cindy's a model. She's from Bottineau, North Dakota, goes by her model name, Eden. She's always posing but trying to look natural. She's a little full
of herself, thinks she's entitled, the world owes her 'cause she's skinny and good-looking.”

Across the lobby, the elevator doors opened; the bodies of Sculley and the doorman, in black body bags, were wheeled on gurneys through the entrance outside to a van parked on the street.

Marquis had Ted Lafrance set up meetings with Mr. Melfi and Ms. Petty for later that evening.

First he met again with Charlene, this time in the kitchen in her apartment. He stood on the other side of an island counter while she drank wine and made dinner. He could smell onions and garlic. She was sautéing vegetables and chicken in a wok.

“How about a glass of wine or a drink, Detective?”

“I'm still on the clock, got two more Q & As to do. Don't want to interrupt your meal. Just a couple more things.” He took the mug shot of Ruben Diaz out of his shirt pocket. It was taken in 1979, when Ruben was seventeen. Now he was thirty-nine. Marquis handed the picture to Charlene. “This guy look familiar?”

She studied the black-and-white photo. “Yeah, I think he was one of them. But he looks a lot different now. Who is he?”

“Ruben Diaz, ex-fighter works for a loan shark with ties to the Mafia.”

“Do you think he killed Pat and Mr. Sculley?”

That's what Marquis
was asking himself as he rode the elevator up a couple floors to Cindy Petty's apartment. If the medical examiner determined the time of death was around six in the evening the day before, Ruben and the cowboy were the most likely suspects.

Cindy, in her socks, was as tall as he was, a little under six feet. They sat in her living room, Cindy at one end of the couch with her long, skinny legs bent under her, Marquis in a chair on the other side of a glass coffee table. He wanted a cigarette bad, wondered what the model would do if he lit up. “I hear your stage name's Eden? That have something to do with the garden?”

“I think of Eden as the epitome of innocence. There was no sin.”

“Until Adam and Eve went against God's law and ate the fruit from the forbidden tree, and God booted 'em out.”

Cindy smiled. “You know your Bible, Detective.”

“I do okay. You know why I'm here?”

“I heard about the murders. I can't believe it happened in our building.”

“Did you know Mr. Sculley and Mr. Linehan?”

“Not really.”

“What time'd you get home yesterday?”

“Five after six. I'd been at a shoot all afternoon. I was exhausted.”

“What was being shot?”

“It was a magazine cover.”

Marquis studied her perfect features and perfect skin, her perfect nose and perfect teeth. “So I'll see you, huh?”

“If you look at
Vogue
.”

“My subscription ran out.” Marquis grinned. “What'd you see when you walked in the lobby?”

Cindy stared out the window for a while and looked back at him. “There were a couple people getting their mail, and two guys talking to the doorman.”

“Look to you like they was having an argument?”

“I didn't pay that much attention.”

“Nobody talking loud?”

Cindy shook her perfect head.

Marquis got up and handed her the mug shot of Ruben. “This one of them talking to the doorman?”

She looked at it. “I think so.” And handed it back.

Marquis leaned forward in the chair. “Mr. Sculley lives right down the hall from you. Hear anything sounded like gunshots?”

“No. I came up here and went in my apartment.”

“Any kind of commotion?”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody falling, banging into a wall. People yelling, shouting, angry.”

“Nothing like that. But I saw a man wearing gloves, I'd swear he came out of Mr. Sculley's apartment. He was right there. It was the gloves that caught my eye. You don't see men wearing gloves inside.”

“What'd he look like?”

“He was well-dressed. I saw his face, but he was far away.”

“Say anything to him?”

“No.”

“Ever see him before?”

Cindy shook her head.

“What time was that?”

“Five forty-seven. I had just returned after meeting a friend for a drink. My boyfriend called.” Cindy took out her cell phone, pressed a couple buttons, and showed him. On the screen, it said
TOM
. Under the name he saw:
INCOMING CALLS
and the date:
SEPTEMBER
26, 5:47
PM
, 01:12. “I told him I'd call back.”

“So you were in the hall at the time?”

She nodded.

“Show me, will you?” Marquis got up and Cindy led him across the living room to the front door and out of the apartment. He looked down the hall at Sculley's door one hundred feet away, yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed in front of it. “Where were you at?”

Cindy Petty walked down the hall to where the elevators were, stopped, turned and faced him. “I was right here. I heard a door close. Looked over my shoulder and saw him.”

“Maybe he came out of another apartment.”

“The closest door was Mr. Sculley's.”

“I'd like to have a police artist come by, have you describe the man.”

“Like in the movies, huh?” Cindy looked like a little girl now, smiling. “But as I said, he was too far away. I didn't really get a good look at him.”

Next Marquis visited Al Melfi on the third floor. He sat in Mr. Melfi's wood-paneled study with framed ads on the walls. “These all yours? I've seen some of them.” There were ads for Absolut Vodka, one for “Coke the real thing,” “This Bud's for you,” and Viagra. Headline said: “You need wood?” A gray-haired dude with a grin on his face was carrying a pile of logs he'd just cut, looking at a gray-haired woman like he was going to pounce on her. “Viagra for erectile dysfunction,” it said at the bottom.

Al Melfi made a face. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“You know Mr. Sculley and Patrick Linehan, the doorman?”

“In passing. I heard what happened.”

“In your profession, you must be an observer, always checking things out, looking for ideas. Tell me what you remember when you walked in the lobby after work yesterday.”

“The doorman was talking to two guys.”

“What were they talking about?”

“How do I know? It looked to me like he knew them. I stopped to pick up my mail. A few minutes later, they got in the elevator. I tried to get in with them but the doors closed. Are they suspects?”

“At the moment, prime.”

“When I was coming down the sidewalk from the subway, I saw them get out of a Toyota sedan, cross the street, and go in the building.”

“Sure it was a Toyota?”

“Positive. A Corolla, black and tan.”

“You see the tag?”

“No.”

Marquis handed him a card. “Call me, you remember anything else.”

THIRTY-THREE

It was Chet Karvatski's crime scene. Chet, who everyone called Chetter, knew Marquis had questioned Frankie Cheech in connection with the murder of Vicki Ross, and called him. The room was big and ornate, with a high ceiling and a couple furniture groupings, a fireplace, and tall windows that faced the street. Marquis studied the positions of the three bodies: Frankie Cheech, white shirt soaked with blood, sitting on a couch with his head back, and the two bodyguards, one facedown, the other faceup on the Oriental rug. He tried to picture the scene, imagine what had happened.

“Who found them?”

“Housekeeper, broad's in Frank's office, crying.”

Across the room, Ted Lafrance, in a custom-made suit, said, “You ask me, the shooters stood here, came in firing.”

Marquis said, “Ted, go out back, look for any evidence of forceful entry.”

When Ted was gone, Chetter said to Marquis, “Who's that?”

“New guy, Ted Lafrance. Graduated law school, decided to become a cop.”

“He's full of shit. There was one shooter, stood in front of the couch. Four casings—all from the same gun. Let me show you something.”

Marquis followed Chetter into Frank DiCicco's office. A dark-haired woman about forty, sitting behind the desk, got up and walked out of the room.

“The housekeeper,” Chetter said. “I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers.” He sat at the desk, looking at a computer.

“Showing your age with that line.” Marquis walked over and stood behind him. “Last time I heard it, I was in grade school.”

Chetter turned, glanced at him. “Footage from the security cameras. Check it out.”

Marquis watched, and Chetter froze the frame when two men appeared at the front door, 6:56
PM
on the time code in the left-hand corner of the screen.

“Know them?” Chetter said.

“The PR's Ruben Diaz. I believe the other one is Duane Cobb. Collectors work for Vincent Gallo, who worked for Frankie Cheech. Let's see what else you got.”

Marquis watched Diaz and Cobb come out in a hurry at 7:12. Fifteen minutes later, Vincent Gallo and his driver showed up, Gallo carrying a duffle bag. “You know the time of death?”

“M.E. said between six thirty and eight thirty, but it was a guess.”

“Say it was Diaz and Cobb, why they do it?”

“Money would be my first guess. Or something happened. Killing a made man is a death sentence.” Chetter studied the screen. “This is the camera in back.”

Gallo's driver was behind the townhouse, smoking a cigarette, looking in windows. He busted a glass pane in the door with his elbow, reached in, unlocked it, and went inside.

Now they were watching Vincent Gallo on the front porch. The driver opened the door.

“Look, he says something to Vincent. See his face? The dude's worried.”

“Maybe he's the shooter,” Marquis said. “With Frankie Cheech out of the way, Gallo moves up the ranks.”

“I don't think so,” Chetter said. “First of all, he didn't have time. Second, you kill a made man, you don't bring a witness.”

At 8:09, Vincent Gallo and the driver exited the townhouse as fast as Ruben and Cobb had about an hour earlier.

“Let's say Gallo's innocent,” Marquis said. “Why didn't he call the police?”

“They take care of their own problems,” Chetter said. “They must know who did it. I should follow them, see who they got in mind.”

Next stop was
the subway. Transit Police had secured this crime scene. Staley, the evidence tech, was dusting a broom handle for prints when Marquis arrived. “Apparent murder weapon. Killer used it like a spear.”

“What, you think we're looking for a Zulu warrior?”

“Or maybe a Hutu,” Staley said, his cadaverous face showing signs of life, breaking into a grin. He reminded Marquis of Steve Buscemi without the bug eyes.

The room smelled like a butcher shop. The body of a dark-haired man was on his back on the concrete floor, a hole in his side, body resting in a pool of coagulated blood. “Who is he?”

“Dominic Benigno,” Staley said. “Forty-two, lives in Brooklyn. AKA Dapper Dom, know him?

Marquis was acquainted with him, crazy motherfucker, Sicilian, Frankie Cheech's trigger. Benigno had done time for assault with intent. His gun, a silenced Beretta semiautomatic, was on the floor ten feet from the body, and he was wearing gloves. Marquis remembered the model at Sculley's apartment building saying she saw a dude wearing gloves. “Any witnesses? Anyone see anything?”

“Busy subway platform,” a transit cop named Kohl said, “someone had to hear it, had to see it, something this crazy and violent. But no one's come forward. Janitor found the body this morning. And look at this: wood shavings from the killer sharpening the broom pole.”

Marquis was looking at the bloody footprints all over the floor, and more heading toward the exit.

Staley said, “We're looking for a dude wears a nine Benny.”

“Huh?”

“It's a shoe size, nine B. I measured the print; I used to sell shoes.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.” Marquis grinned. “Can't be many men in New York City wear a size nine, huh.”

Staley said, “Less than a million, I'd guess.”

The For Sale
sign on the front lawn surprised him. Mrs. hadn't said nothing about selling the house. Marquis Brown rang the bell and waited. He walked up the driveway behind the house to the garage, opened the door, saw that Jack's BMW was missing. He walked back to the house, stood at the side door. Mrs. hadn't had the broken windowpane repaired yet; a piece of cardboard was taped in place where the glass had been knocked out. He pushed through it, unlocked the door, and went in, thinking this was one of the strangest cases he'd ever worked.

Here's what he knew: the husband allegedly had an affair with a young girl in debt to a loan shark. McCann agreed to pay the debt but died when Tower One collapsed on 9/11. Now two of Frank DiCicco's collectors were trying to strong-arm Mrs. for the money. Three people connected with the case had been murdered: Vicki Ross, Joe Sculley, and Patrick Linehan, and this morning, Frankie Cheech and his bodyguards were found shot to death in Cheech's townhouse. Add Dominic Benigno to the list, and there were seven dead. With all that had transpired, Diane was off his list of suspects in Vicki Ross's murder. But he still thought she knew something.

Marquis walked through the kitchen and breakfast room down a hallway to the den, looked in, saw bookshelves on one of the walls and a desk with a computer on it across the room. He didn't know what he was looking for till he sat behind the desk, staring at the green and white Apple iMac. Marquis wasn't especially good with computers, had a PC at the station house. His fourteen-year-old daughter Shareeta had shown him a few things, so he knew he could at least turn the motherfucker on. He pushed the button and the screen lit up.

First thing, he started checking e-mail, saw a confirmation on an American Airlines flight: LaGuardia to Fort Lauderdale, yesterday
morning. Went deeper, checked e-mails going back a week, nothing about a hotel or car rental, and then went back a month, wondering if Mrs. had been in touch with her disappeared husband. He didn't see anything that suggested it.

Marquis got up and stood in front of the bookshelves, scanning books, photographs, knickknacks, and so forth. There were three photo albums on one of the shelves. He took them down, went back to the desk, and opened the wedding album, Mrs. looking young and fine in the wedding dress, holding a bouquet of flowers, posing with Jack, starting their life together. Marquis wondered, when did it start to go bad? One day for whatever reason the dude decided to step out on her.

Or was the affair bullshit, Mrs. made it up, covering for her man? Jack went down in the tower, but walked out before it collapsed. Faked his own death, Mrs. collects the life insurance, puts the house up for sale, meets him in Florida. But why? Dude was makin' a lot of money.

He closed the wedding album, opened the next one, turning pages, looked at vacations in different places. Rome and Paris, two of them posing at the Eiffel Tower, looking all happy and such. Then on a beach in some tropical place. Heading said Captiva Island, picture taken in front of a sign that said 'Tween Waters Inn. There were other pics taken at a house on the beach, Mrs. looking sexy in a bikini, posing and lying on the sand. Why would Jack be out tomcatting he had this fine woman at home? In one of the photo sleeves was a business card with a website offering vacation rentals.

He took the card, sat in front of the computer, typed in the website, clicked on it. Marquis scrolled down till he found the house in the photograph.

Something familiar about Captiva, Marquis remembering now, Mrs. telling him it was one of the locations they talked about living at. She wouldn't have told him that if the husband was there. But if he was there, why'd she fly to Fort Lauderdale?

Marquis drove back
to Manhattan, visited Vincent Gallo again at the poker club in Little Italy.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Know who killed Frank DiCicco and the bodyguards?

       
G
ALLO
: I might have an idea.

       
M
ARQUIS
: What can we do to jog your memory?

       
G
ALLO
: Was Cobb and Diaz.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Came back in a hurry, huh? Why would they go after Frank?

       
G
ALLO
: I think it was a misunderstanding.

       
M
ARQUIS
(grinned): You think so, huh? You see the crime scene? That was some misunderstanding.

       
G
ALLO
: Find Cobb and Diaz, you clear up four murders.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Who else you talking about?

       
G
ALLO
: Vicki Ross.

       
M
ARQUIS
: (They didn't kill Vicki.) Know where they at?

       
G
ALLO
: That's what I was gonna ask you.

       
M
ARQUIS
: How would I know?

       
G
ALLO
: Isn't that what you do, find people that don't want to be found?

       
M
ARQUIS
: Tell me about Jack McCann.

       
G
ALLO
: Owes us a lot of money.

       
M
ARQUIS
: He's alive?

       
G
ALLO
: Course he's alive.