A Killing Fair (11 page)

 

Chapter 14: The Moving Finger Points

T
uesday morning found me standing at Don O'Rourke's desk, as I'd promised Jayne Halvorson I would.
“Hey, you finally came up with an angle that's worth a story,” Don said after I'd made my pitch. Chalk one up for Jayne.

Contacting Vito wasn't as easy. His wife answered the home phone and said he wasn't there. She gave me his cell number, so I called that and got his voice mail. I left my name and both my office and cell numbers after the beep and went to the cafeteria to grab a cup of coffee. Al was just coming out with a cup in each hand. “You can buy tomorrow,” he said as he handed a cup to me.

“What's happening?” I asked as we walked back to my desk. “And I don't mean with your photo assignments.”

“You're referring, of course, to Willow, my number one fan.”

“The one and only.”

“Willow practically has me weeping,” he said. “She won't take no for an answer on the nude shots. Even worse, she wants a naked shot of me.”

“A naked shot of you? I merely thought she was goofy, now I know it for a fact.”

“A bare fact, you might say.”

“I might, but I won't.” We had reached my desk and Al took his usual corner perch. “I take it you're not going to hang out with Willow.”

“Not with her or for her,” Al said. “Being nice didn't work, so I guess I'm going to have to be a real bastard and tell her to knock off the e-mails altogether.”

“Apparently that's what it will take,” I said. “Something like, ‘Hi Willow, please make like the tree you're named after and leaf.'”

“Cute, but cute won't work with her. I'm going to flat-out tell her that our e-mail exchange is over and that I won't open any more of her messages.”

“That should get the job done.”

“Let's hope. And speaking of jobs, where are you going today?”

I hadn't thought about going anywhere, but the question gave me an idea. “I'm going to King Vinnie's Steakhouse to see if I can stake out the new owner.”

“Don't you need a photographer? I'm currently without a mission, and I'm tired of listening to Sully Romanov talk about his trip to Israel.” Sully was a photographer who loved both to travel and to talk about his travels.

“Check it out with the desk. I can always use a photographer.”

I suggested trying the back door because it was still before opening time, so we parked behind King Vinnie's Steakhouse, right beside a black BMW. “If we're lucky, the Beemer belongs to Vito,” Al said.

“I doubt if any of the hired help can afford that kind of ride,” I said.

The door was unlocked and we found Vito in the kitchen with Max Triviano, the manager, and Ozzie Bergman, the bartender. When Vito saw us, he took a step back and said, “Who the hell are you?”

“I think they're from the paper,” Ozzie said. He pointed at me. “That one's been in here asking questions about Vinnie and some of the customers.”

“Ozzie's right; we're from the paper,” I said. We introduced ourselves and I made the pitch for a story about Vito's plans for the restaurant, just as Jayne had suggested. “I've been trying to get you on the phone to set up an interview but my editor didn't want me to wait any longer so we came here hoping to catch you.”

“Any plans I might have aren't ready to be put in the paper yet,” Vito said. “I only just got this place a couple weeks ago, and it wasn't like I was expecting it.”

“You didn't know it had been willed to you?” I asked.

“Oh, I knew that. What I'm saying is I didn't expect Vinnie to go out and get himself killed before the ink was dry. When he told me about changing the will I figured it was just an insurance maneuver.”

“What do you mean by insurance maneuver?”

“I mean he was afraid those greedy kids of his might hire somebody to knock him off so they could inherit the restaurant.”

“Did Vinnie tell you that?” I asked.

“He did,” Vito said. “He was scared of those kids, especially Louie, the oldest.”

“Did he give you any specific reasons why he was scared?”

“The kids, especially Louie, have been after him to retire and turn the business over to them. They all worked here before they graduated college. Louie's worked here the most—on and off between other jobs that he either got fired from or quit because he hated the work or the boss or both. He's just a loose cannon and the other two, Tommy and Patty, pretty much follow along with whatever screwy Louie wants. They give me the creeps, those kids.”

“How old are ‘those kids'?” I asked.

“I think Louie just turned forty,” Vito said. “They're spaced about two years apart, so Tommy would be thirty-eight and Patty thirty-six. I might be off a year or two either way.”

“Louie acted like he was surprised when I talked to him about the will. Didn't Vinnie tell the kids about the change?”

“I don't know. He said he was going to get them together and tell them all at the same time. Maybe he hadn't had a chance to do that. Louie's the only one that lives close. Tommy lives up in Duluth and Patty is way the hell off in Wisconsin somewhere. She's married to a goddamn Packers fan.”

“Oh, my god, how could she do that when the Vikings do so much business with King Vinnie's?” Al said.

“Some people got no loyalty,” Vito said. “Anyway, that's all I know about Vinnie's will.”

“Are you aware that the kids are contesting it?” I asked.

“Yeah, I heard about it,” Vito said.

“What's your reaction?”

“No comment. Talk to my lawyer.”

“Who is that?”

“Guy by the name of Andrew Morris. Works for Linda Lansing's firm downtown. You probably heard of it.”

I had heard of it. The firm was owned by the best criminal defense lawyer in the Twin Cities, Linda L. Lansing, also known as Triple-L. And, as previously noted, Martha Todd was employed there.

 

* * *

 

Back at my desk, I ran down my list of people who might have put out a hit on Vinnie Luciano. The newest addition was Louie Luciano and his siblings. Also featured were Fred McDonald, the angry Teamsters leader; Oscar Peterson and Luigi Bunatori, restaurant competitors who were jealous of Vinnie; and of course Vinnie's cousin Vito.

Vito was still my favorite. With the revised will bequeathing him the steakhouse, he had the most to gain.

But Louie and his gang were also worthy of consideration. If they really hadn't been told about the revision of the will, they might have seen the Square Meal on a Stick introductory show as a prime opportunity to get rid of their father. And even if they knew about the change, they might have been angry enough to kill Vinnie and take their chances on contesting the will.

Vito's choice of law firms was also interesting. In addition to having strong representation in the fight over the will, he would have the top defense lawyer in town in his corner if he was charged with anything criminal.

What about Oscar and Luigi? They both had motives and, being in the food business, they might think of food as a dispatching agent. I'd keep them on the list.

Fred was a distant runner-up. He'd had a run-in with Vinnie, but there was no long-standing enmity. Maybe it was time to drop him.

My primary question was: Who knew about the dog-and-pony show introducing the Square Meal on a Stick far enough in advance to hire a hit man who'd have time to disguise himself, poison the food and deliver it to the stage?

Maybe the State Fair's public relations director could answer that question. Too bad the Pronto Pup stands were closed for the season.

Meanwhile, I had some more questions to ask.

 

Chapter 15: Clueless in Falcon Heights

W
hat do you know about Andrew Morris?” I said to Martha Todd as we sat down to watch the news that evening.

“Andy is a colleague in our firm,” Martha said. “Why do you ask?”

“Andy is representing Vito Luciano in the suit over Vinnie Luciano's will,” I said. “Which no doubt means that he drew up the will that cut out Vinnie's kids.”

“Andy is a very good lawyer. I'm sure he'll give Vito a very good chance to win. Beyond that, I can't talk to you about a colleague.”

“How good is very good? Where would you rank Andy on a scale of ten?”

“I'm not going to get into that,” Martha said. “I especially won't discuss this with you because you'll be covering the story.”

“Must you be so damn ethical?” I asked.

“Would you love me as much if I wasn't?”

“I'd love you if you were pushing little old ladies in front of buses and suing the city for their pain and suffering.”

“You would not. You'd have Al following me with a camera to catch me in the act of pushing, and you'd be writing about the corrupt ambulance chaser who was stealing the taxpayers' money.”

“It's a moot point,” I said. “You're incorruptible.”

“But I'm extremely loveable,” she said.

“Is there time to demonstrate that before supper?”

“I thought you'd never ask,” she said. “I was just about to call out for pizza.”

“Hold that call,” I said. She held the call and I held her until well past our normal dinner hour.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday was my day off, but I couldn't resist driving to the State Fairgrounds to see Lorrie. I could have quizzed her by telephone, but it was turning into another hot day and I was curious about her choice of clothing. With the fair no longer running, parking was no problem. I pulled in between the only two cars standing on the blacktop next to the Admin building.

Lorrie was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but the shorts went halfway down her thighs and the T-shirt was a couple of sizes too large. Her ensemble looked like a semi-inflated balloon hanging above two shapeless sacks. For this I could have phoned.

“Aren't you roasting in all those clothes?” I asked. “It must be ninety degrees in here.”

“My armpits are swimming, but some big shots from downtown are coming in. I thought I'd better cover up a little,” Lorrie said. “What brings you out here when you can't stuff your face with Pronto Pups?”

“Your stunning, magnetic beauty. And a question about the Square Meal on a Stick.”

She tugged at the bottom of the T-shirt so that it stretched taught across her breasts, confirming that they were still perky. “You're so full of B.S. that I wish I had boots on, but I'll try to answer your question.”

“It's a two-parter: How far in advance did you advertise the Square Meal introduction program and did you mention Vinnie Luciano's name in the promo?”

“Oh, god, let me look.” She opened a desk drawer, pulled out a thick Manila file folder and started flipping through the contents. Three-fourths of the way down the pile she pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here's the press release. It's dated August 18, the Thursday before the event, which was on Wednesday. My aim was to get a note in the Sunday papers and a mention on the weekend TV news shows.”

“And did you succeed?” I asked.

“Let me check the clips.” She pulled out another Manila folder and started flipping. “Okay, we did get a couple of lines in the Sunday Dispatch calendar of events.”

“Did it mention Vinnie?”

“It did. It says the new treat was created by Vinnie Luciano, owner of King Vinnie's Steakhouse. Why are you asking?”

“I was wondering where Vinnie's killer found out about the program, and how much time he had to concoct a murder scheme and hire the guy to carry it out.”

“I guess that's your answer,” Lorrie said.

“Was the Sunday Dispatch the only paper that carried the story?”

“It's the only clip I have. Apparently the editors in Minne­apolis didn't think it was worth the space. There's also a note in here that Channel Four mentioned the unveiling of a new treat on a stick on their Sunday evening newscast, but I don't know if they mentioned Vinnie or not.”

“Maybe Trish Valentine, reporting live, would know.”

“You could ask her. I'm sure you wouldn't mind including a trip to see her in your quest for stunning, magnetic beauty.”

“You're right,” I said. “I wonder where she's reporting live today.”

“She's always where the action is,” Lorrie said. “I'd head for the nearest fire or crime scene.”

“Good advice.” I waved goodbye and went home to my air-conditioned apartment. I'd done enough legwork on my day off. Besides, I had orders from Martha to start packing in preparation for our move to Zhoumaya Jones's domain. Sherlock Holmes helped by constantly winding his body around my ankles while I was putting stuff into boxes.

 

* * *

 

Ever the masochist, I started my day on Thursday with a call to the Falcon Heights Police Department. To my amazement, Detec­tive Barnes was at her desk. My call was immediately transferred and KGB surprised me further by wishing me a good morning.

“Good morning to you,” I said. “You're sounding very upbeat this morning.”

“The day is young,” she said. “We missed hearing from you yesterday.”

“Didn't anyone call you about the Luciano case?”

“A very sweet young lady did in fact call us. She was quite willing to accept our statement that we had no new develop­ments for her. No quibbling, no quarreling, no trying to squeeze out something that wasn't there.”

“And your point is?” I said.

“That we appreciate a cooperative attitude on the part of the media, even when we are unable to reward it with news about pursuing a suspect or a so-called person of interest,” said KGB.

“Are you suggesting I've not been cooperative?”

“We're merely commenting on the demeanor of yesterday's caller. It's up to you if you wish to make a self-comparison.”

I wished to punch her in the face until her nose was poking out through the back of her head. Gritting my teeth, I said, “Have you anything new to report to this humble and cooperative reporter today?”

“Actually, we have,” she said. “We have questioned a number of Mr. Luciano's family members, friends and business associates and have found nothing to lead us to the perpetrator of the crime. We are of course continuing our investigation but we are without sufficient evidence to bring charges against anyone at this time.”

“You don't think cousin Vito Luciano had sufficient motive to get rid of Vinnie?”

“We don't have any evidence that Mr. Vito Luciano acted in that manner.”

“What about Vinnie's children? He'd been refusing their requests to retire and give them the restaurant, and they thought they were still in the will. Didn't they have strong motivation to get rid of dear old dad?”

“Again, we have no evidence that would lead us to that conclusion.”

I was getting more and more annoyed with her use of the royal “we.” “So where does leave all of you?” I said.

“We—and we're referring now to the police department here, not just this detective—will continue the investigation and would like to speak with anyone who might have information pertaining to Mr. Luciano's death. We would appreciate the inclusion of our phone number and e-mail address in your story, Mr. Mitchell.”

“You know me. Always cooperative in the fullest.”

“We thank you for that, Mr. Mitchell. Have a nice day.”

I started to respond but the line was dead. I put down the phone and sent an e-mail to Don O'Rourke. “Here's your head for the Luciano case: ‘Stonewalling cops hit stonewall.' Story to follow.”

I looked over at Corinne Ramey sitting at the next desk. “Hey, Corinne, did you call the Falcon Heights cops about Vinnie Luciano yesterday?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “Detective Barnes politely told me that there were no new developments in their ongoing investigation.”

“Detective Barnes thought you were very sweet about it.”

“Sweet?”

“Just one sugar lump short of a full bowl.”

“That bitch,” Corinne said. “I'll show her something sweet the next time I call.”

 

* * *

 

“What's new?” Al asked as I plopped down facing him at a table in the lunchroom.

“The KGB actually said something beyond ‘nyet' this morning,” I said. “She more or less admitted their investigation was going nowhere and they've run out of people to question.”

Al thought for a second before he said, “Stonewalling cops hit stonewall?”

“That's exactly the head I suggested to Don.”

“Ah, great minds run in the same goofy grooves. So where does that leave us for stories and pix about the murder of St. Paul's leading restaurateur?”

“It leaves us with whatever we can dig up and photograph on our own.”

“If we keep digging we should have a scoop,” Al said.

“Or we'll be deep in a hole,” I said.

“I might need a hole to hide in.”

“From your bare-breasted cyber friend Willow?”

“You got it. She keeps on sending e-mails saying we should get together and talk about our relationship.”

“You have a relationship?”

“She says we do. I told her I was finished swapping e-mails with her, and I haven't answered her last six messages, but she still won't go away. And she attaches that same topless photo to every message.”

“How do you know it's the same photo every time?” I said.

“I check it out,” Al said.

“You're keeping abreast of the situation?”

“Who wouldn't?”

“Only a boob. But this is more than having fun and singing about ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow.' I think you've got yourself a stalker. Maybe you could get some kind of restraining order.”

“I don't want to mess with that. I'll just keep ignoring her messages and opening the attachments.”

“I'd also watch my back if I were you.”

“Are you serious? You think she'd try to do something physical?”

“Stranger things have happened.”