A Killing Fair (13 page)

 

Chapter 18: Narrowing the Search

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f course I wasn't going to tell KGB. Why should I? What had KGB ever done for me?

Now the question was where and how to start. My two suspects had the means and the motive but how could I find out if either or both had the opportunity.

Should I come on like gang busters with Vito, tell him I knew about the horse doping charge and challenge his association with Dr. Philip Lymanski? Or should I try to finesse a discussion about horse racing, doping and chemists? How could I present this in terms of a story for the paper?

Or should I start with Louie by confronting him with the strychnine poisoning of the Palmers' dog? That might be risking strangulation. Maybe I should play it cagey with Louie and try to find out where he was on the day of—and the day before—his father's murder? And again, how could I turn this line of questioning into a story?

I posed these questions to Jayne Halvorson as we drank our glasses of ginger ale in Herbie's after our Monday night AA meeting. My plan was to consult with Jayne that night, run it past Martha when I got home and get Al's opinion the next morning before doing whatever the hell I thought would work.

As always, Jayne took her time responding. After several sips through her straw, she suggested telling Vito and Louie that I was planning to write a story about when Vinnie Luciano's loved ones last saw him and what they were doing when they learned of Vinnie's death. This would also require interviewing Vinnie's wife and the other children to camouflage my real intent, but it could even make a legitimate story.

“Brilliant,” I said. “I knew you'd come through with an idea. Prominent victim's family recalls his last hours. You're wonderful.”

“And I'm only charging my usual fee,” Jayne said.

“I'm paying the tab for your ginger ale?”

“That's right. But I'm having seconds.”

“I think I can cover it.”

On the sofa at home, with Sherlock Holmes straddling our laps, I repeated the conversation to Martha and asked for her opinion.

“My first opinion is that you should be careful how you approach those two guys,” Martha said. “The word around my office is that Vito has connections with some pretty nasty people, and it's obvious from what you've told me that Louie has an explosive temper.”

“I'm with you there,” I said. “I don't relish being ambushed by a friend of Vito's or having Louie's hands around my neck.”

“The only thing around your neck should be my arms.”

“I'm also with you there. Why don't we try a little of that?”

“Here or in the bedroom?”

“The bedroom is much more comfortable. Plus we can get naked first,” I said.

“Naked in the bedroom it is,” Martha said. And naked in the bedroom it was.

 

* * *

 

I didn't see Al until lunchtime on Tuesday because he'd been sent out to shoot a semi-trailer rollover on Interstate 94 in the eastern suburb of Lake Elmo. Some idiot had cut off the truck, forcing the driver to take evasive action that threw the trailer out of balance. The whole eighteen-wheel rig came to rest on its side, blocking all westbound lanes leading into the Twin Cities at rush hour. Oh, yes, the trailer's load of cornflakes was also spread across a wide patch of the highway. The only good news was that the truck driver wasn't hurt.

“Did you pick up a few boxes of cornflakes?” I asked when Al joined me in the cafeteria.

“My kids are fixed for breakfast until they graduate from college,” he said.

“No Willow lurking at the door?”

“No sign of her. Maybe she finally got the message. Anything new on the King Vinnie front? The KGB making any progress?”

“The KGB reported only that she had several more calls from tipsters and that ‘we' are following up. But wait until you hear what I've got going.”

When I finished my tale of acquiring the Vito and Louie rap sheets and my subsequent actions, Al said, “So now what?”

“Don has his doubts about my story idea, but he finally gave me the go-ahead. I've already set up an interview with Vinnie's wife for this afternoon. That seemed like an innocuous way to start. And of course I need a photographer to take a mug shot.”

“Got any photographers in mind?”

“Only one. The slip is already written and we're meeting the grieving widow in her home on Mississippi River Boulevard at two o'clock.”

“Don really bit on this?” Al said.

“I think Don knows what I'm really after—that it's about trying to smoke out the killer. But Vinnie was his next-door neighbor, and he's really pissed at what little the Falcon Heights cops have done.”

 

* * *

 

Vinnie Luciano had lived in a well-kept Tudor style house on the high bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. The spectacular view across the river included Fort Snelling, a nineteenth-century outpost originally built for protection against Indian raids. The fort had been turned into a tourist attraction, complete with men in Civil War era soldier costumes who fired a real 1860s cannon for the visitors. As we walked from the car to the front door, I wondered if the cannon shots could be heard in the Lucianos' front yard.

Sophie Luciano met us at the door and ushered us into the living room. Like her late husband, she was short and wide, and her straight black hair was sprinkled with gray. She wore a black dress appropriate for a recently widowed woman and sensible black shoes. The only pieces of jewelry she wore were her engage­ment and wedding rings.

She waved us toward two armchairs, both of which were upholstered with bright elaborate patterns, and offered us iced tea. We accepted and she brought three glassfuls from the kitchen on a tray. After passing out the tea, she sat on a wide, floral-print sofa facing us, with a glass-topped coffee table in between. The only items on the table were the morning paper and a National Geo­graphic magazine, both squared up with the edges of the table.

After we offered our condolences, she nodded and said, “You were there, weren't you? When Vinnie died?”

“Yes, both of us were as close to Vinnie as we are to you right now,” I said.

“That's the only reason I'm talking to you,” Sophie said. “I've been keeping away from the media, but I want to ask you about his last moments. What they showed on TV looked so awful, like he was in terrible pain.”

I didn't like where this was going. The thought of recounting Vinnie's writhing death throes to his loving wife brought a knot to my stomach.

Al saved my day. “I think he was beyond pain,” he said. “I was very close because I was shooting pictures and it looked to me like he was unconscious and not feeling a thing.” Liar, I thought.

“I had that same feeling,” I said. “His body was moving but he seemed to be totally out of it.”

“You're not just saying that to comfort me?” Sophie said.

“No, no,” we said in unison.

“That's really how it looked close up,” Al said.

“Thank you,” she said. “I never imagined that my husband would die like that. So horrible.”

I needed to change the subject quickly so I asked when she'd last spoken with Vinnie and we moved along into the interview. Her description of the couple's last hours together was so mundane I was barely listening until Sophie mentioned that three days before the murder Louie had been visiting while Vinnie was bragging about the Square Meal on a Stick.

My brain snapped to attention when I heard that. “Did Vinnie mention when he was introducing it at the fair?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, he gave us the full story, including where it was happening,” Sophie said. “He was really hyped about showing off that crazy square thing, and he thought doing it at Heritage Square with a bunch of square dancers was a great gimmick.”

“What did Louie think of that ‘crazy square thing,' as you call it?”

“Louie thought it was a great idea. Asked Vinnie what time the show was starting so he could try to get off work and be there.”

“And was he there?” I asked.

She thought for a moment. “I don't really know. I don't recall that he's ever said anything about being there. I guess you'll have to ask him.”

“I'll do that,” I said. Oh, baby, would I ever.

 

* * *

 

“Aren't you ashamed of lying to the poor woman like that?” Al said as we walked to the car.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Telling her he was out of it, having no pain.”

“You told the same lie. ‘Beyond pain,' you said.”

“Good thing she didn't have a lie detector.”

“I have a feeling she detected both of our lies and chose to accept them.”

“No lie?” Al said.

“Nothing but the truth,” I said.

We parked the car in the company garage, and were almost at the front door of the Daily Dispatch when we saw her. Willow, wearing a high-necked, ankle-length pale blue dress, was leaning against the wall beside the door. Luckily she was looking in the opposite direction. We flattened ourselves against the wall and backed away. When we were out her sightline, we turned and high-tailed it around the corner. We went into the nearest skyway entrance and made our way to the office, with Al grumbling about the inefficiency of the system that hadn't yet produced a restraining order.

“Maybe the lack of a last name is causing a problem,” I said. “Martha found her on Facebook after we got home last night and she goes by Willow and nothing else.”

I called Martha at her office and learned that the order had been issued after some discussion of the name. “It's just a matter of finding her to serve her,” Martha said. “There's no home address listed anywhere for someone whose name is just Willow.”

“Well, she's camped outside the Daily Dispatch front door as we speak,” I said.

“I'll call the police and tell them,” she said. “Is she wearing any clothes?”

“She's wearing a baby-blue dress that goes from her neck down to her ankles.”

“Too bad. She'd be easier to spot if she was still in her baby pink birthday suit. Anyway, I'll send the cops. Bye, sweetie, see you at home.”

 

Chapter 19: Take Your Choice

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f course Willow had moved away by the time the officer with the restraining order reached the Daily Dispatch. Al learned of the service failure Wednesday morning via e-mail—from Willow. She sent an apology of sorts for her unclad appearance at Al's front door. It ended with, “I don't know what got into me, but I wish it was you.” She included the standard bare boobs attachment and added a photo of her bikini-waxed crotch with her legs spread. Al called me into the photo department and showed me the new anatomical view of Willow on his laptop. “It looks like she took this one herself, holding the camera at arms' length,” he said. “See how the angle isn't quite straight? She was tilting the camera a little to one side.”

“My god, quit critiquing the photography and kill that thing,” I said. “What if you get hit by a car or something, and the cops pick up your laptop and find this kind of crap on it? They'll send you to Sandstone for five years.” Sandstone is the site of a federal prison in northern Minnesota.

“Jeez, I was going to make a big print and enter it in this year's Guild contest,” Al said. The Twin Cities Newspaper Guild sponsors an annual contest for various categories of newspaper work. “It might take first prize in the self-portrait division.”

I looked again at the fleshy pink tunnel and said, “You could call it ‘Opening the Gates of Hell.'”

“I'd sure catch hell if Carol ever saw it.” He pressed delete and the voluminous vagina vanished from view.

After my routine phone check with Detective Barnes, who said “we” had nothing new but were following up some additional telephone tips, I was sent to the University of Minnesota to cover a Board of Regents meeting. This stuffy event wiped out my morning, but I had some time to chase Vinnie Luciano's killer after lunch. I decided to start with Vito, so I managed to grab Al and we drove to King Vinnie's Steakhouse hoping to catch the new owner on the job.

We were in luck. Vito was mingling with the remainder of the afternoon crowd, most of whom had consumed a late lunch heavy on the liquid side. We took Vito aside and I explained the phantom story we were working on.

Vito's face turned scarlet. “Jesus H. Christ!” he said, loud enough to catch the attention of everyone still in the dining room. “Don't you guys ever quit? Vinnie's been dead for what? Three fuckin' weeks? Let it alone for god's sake.”

Could this be a guilty conscience talking? “People are still interested,” I said. “Vinnie had a lot of friends in this town. It's a natural human interest story.”

Vito scowled at me for an uncomfortable moment before replying. “Tell you what, Mr. Reporter. If you promise never to come to me lookin' for anymore half-ass stories, I'll answer your questions for this one. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

Vito led us to his office, waved us into two guest chairs facing his desk and closed the door. He walked around the desk, sat down and took a cigar box out of his top right drawer. He offered us each a cigar and we both said, “No thanks.” He bit off the tip of a big, black one, applied a wooden match to the business end, blew out a cloud of blue smoke, and leaned back in his chair.

“Fresh from Cuba,” Vito said. “Sure you won't join me?”

We shook our heads in unison and I thought about Don O'Rourke's funny bone joke about us being joined at the skull.

“So, what do you want to know?” Vito said, emitting another blue cloud. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Al's camera flash.

“Well, let's start with the day Vinnie died and work back­ward,” I said. “Were you at the fair that morning?”

“Never go near the fair,” he said. “That place is a fuckin' zoo, pardon my French. Too many people, and I wouldn't touch any of that crap they're sellin' in the name of food out there.”

“Not even a Square Meal on a Stick?”

“If I never hear of that piece of shit again it will be too soon.”

“So you didn't go to the grand introduction of your cousin's invention?”

This brought a huge puff of smoke. “No way in hell was I goin' there.”

“Did you know about the Meal . . . uh, Vinnie's concoction before the program?”

“How could I not?” Vito said. “That's all he talked about for a month before the fair started. He had this marvelous idea and the idiots at the fair bought it. He tried to get me to taste it and I told him to shove it where the sun don't shine.”

“So you knew about the project even before Vinnie's big show at the fairgrounds?” I said.

“That's what I said. He talked about it so much I was ready to kill him. Oh, hey, don't put that in the paper. Those dumb-ass cops in Falcon Heights might take it the wrong way.”

“You think the Falcon Heights cops are dumb?”

“They ain't turned up even a suspect much less caught the killer. What else are they but dumb?”

I wanted to agree, but I also wanted to stay on the main subject. “Did you know when and where the ceremony was going to be held?” I asked.

“Christ, yes. He thought that doin' it on the Heritage Square stage with a bunch of square dancers was the slickest sales gimmick since that pill maker started puttin' horny people into twin bathtubs. He tried to get me to come and watch, but like I said, I don't go near the fairgrounds while it's full of dumb-ass people.”

“So you knew what time the show was starting?”

Another major cloud of smoke went up. “Of course I did. Why do you keep askin' about the goddamn program anyway? I thought this story was about the last time I saw Vinnie alive.”

Oops. Better get on to the announced topic. “It is about that. Sorry. I got sidetracked on what happened that day. It's still pretty fresh in my mind.”

“Lucky you. I'm just damn glad I wasn't there. The shots I saw on TV were enough to make you puke.”

“So, getting back to the main story,” I said. “You seem to have been spending quite a bit of time with Vinnie this summer.”

“We were gettin' to be like cousins again, the way we used to be,” Vito said. “We started gettin' together after he called me and said he was changin' his will because he was afraid of Louie. Looks like he had a good reason to be.”

“You think it was Louie that had him killed?”

“That's who my money is on. Can't convince that dumb-ass detective, though.”

“You've told her you think it was Louie?”

“Hell, yes. He didn't know the will had been changed, and he was so hot to get that restaurant that his ass was on fire. He's been out of work since last January when he got canned for grabbin' his boss by the throat.” Another piece of information to put in my file on Louie.

“So, what did you and Vinnie do as cousins, besides changing the will?” I said.

“Oh, we did this and that,” Vito said. “A little golf. Some card games. We went to the casino down at Prairie Island one time. Vinnie won a few bucks playin' blackjack and I lost my ass at the roulette wheel.”

“Ever go to the races at Canterbury Park?”

I wanted this to sound innocent but it drew a blast of cigar smoke. “No, we didn't. If you'd been readin' your own paper a few years back you'd know I can't go there no more.”

“Sorry. I forgot about that. Now I remember the story: you and a chemist friend got into some kind of trouble out there.”

“They claimed we was dopin' the horses, but they couldn't get us indicted. The chicken-shit bastards at Canterbury banned us anyway.”

“Are you still buddies with the chemist?”

A quick puff of smoke. “Haven't seen him since the grand jury hearings,” Vito said. “Why are you askin' about him anyway? He's got nothing to do with me and Vinnie.”

“Sorry. I tend to wander off the beaten path sometimes. So tell me about the last time you saw Vinnie. What were you doing?”

“We played golf and had a couple drinks the day before he died. He beat me by ten strokes but that was no reason to kill him, in case you're thinkin' I might have had something to do with it.”

“I'm not thinking anything like that,” I said.

“Bullshit you're not,” Vito said. “You're suspicious as hell because I got the restaurant. Well, go ask Louie what he was doin' the day of the murder and see what you think then. Now I got work to do so I'll say goodbye to you gentlemen and wish you a good day.”

“And a good day to you,” Al and I said in unison, and we headed for the car.

“So what do you think?” Al asked as we drove out of the parking lot.

“He's still high on my list,” I said. “The way he hesitated before he said he hasn't seen the chemist since the grand jury proceedings made me think he was blowing more than pure cigar smoke.”

* * *

Thursday was my day off. I spent the morning packing stuff for our move and wondering if Corinne Ramey drew the short straw for calling KGB. I could barely resist calling Corinne and asking, but I had promised myself to stay completely away from the Luciano murder case for at least one day.

To my surprise, the Luciano murder case came to me. Early in the afternoon I received a call from Louie Luciano, who asked in an angry voice why I was pestering his mother about his father's death.

I explained my cover story to Louie, and added that I was intending to call him the next day.

“Why not do it now?” he said. “I want to hear what you're asking.”

“Fine,” I said. “Hang on a minute while I get my notebook.”

As usual I started working backward from the time of Vinnie's death. “Where were you while your father was introducing his new product?” I asked.

“Where I usually am during the week,” he said. “At work.”

Vito had said he was unemployed. “Where do you work?” I asked.

“I'm working for Swenson's Lawn and Garden Service on Payne Avenue. That morning I was cutting the grass at a big house in North Oaks.” North Oaks is a suburban collection of big houses owned by a collection of people with big bucks.

“Kind of a hot day for cutting grass,” I said.

“You do it when the customer wants you to,” Louie said. “I was on a riding mower so it wasn't so bad.”

“So you weren't able to get to your father's show at the fairgrounds?”

“No way. And after what happened, I'm glad I wasn't there. It looked like shit on TV.”

“It looked even worse close up.”

“My mom said that you said he wasn't in no pain when he was flopping around on the floor. Is that really what you think?”

“I really don't know whether he was in pain or not,” I said. “His eyes were closed so he might have been unconscious.”

“But he might have been in pain?” Louie asked. He almost sounded hopeful.

“I'd like your mom to think he wasn't.”

“Yeah. Me, too. So now what?”

“So, did you see your dad the day he died or the night before?”

“No. Last time I stopped by was Sunday morning for Mom's sourdough pancakes. She makes them for breakfast every Sunday, and I eat 'em by the dozen. That morning Pop was like a little kid bragging about that crap on a stick. Wanted me to take off work and be there for the program, but I said only if he gave me a day's pay. He just laughed at that.”

“That was your last conversation?”

“Pretty much. He didn't want to talk about anything else.”

“What did you want to talk about?” The restaurant maybe?

“Nothing special. Just not about a stupid thing he was selling at the fair.”

“Were you doing anything special with your dad in the days before he died?

“We didn't see each other that much. He was always busy at the restaurant, like usual.”

“Are you saying he wasn't there for you very much?”

“I'm saying he was always busy with the goddamn restau­rant.”

“How about when you were in trouble? Was he there for you then?”

“What are you talking about? Who said I was in trouble”

“Weren't you arrested for choking your next door neighbor?”

There was a moment of silence before he said, “Who told you that?”

“A person who called me.”

“Fuckin' Eddie. Did Eddie call you?”

“No, I swear to you that Edward Palmer did not call me, and I'm not going to tell you who did.”

“Little rat fink. I'll bet it was Eddie.”

“It was not Eddie. But obviously what I heard is true.”

“We had an argument and he pushed me and I pushed him and I got the blame,” Louie said. “He started it by yelling at me about his poor little treezies. He should've been busted, too.”

“Did your dad stand up for you then?”

“Pop was taking care of the restaurant like he always was. Mom bailed me out and came to court with me.”

It was time to squeeze him a bit. “What did you say when your dad told you he'd changed the will?” I asked.

“I told you, he never said boo about changing it,” Louie said. “I found out about it after he was dead.”

“So you thought King Vinnie's was still willed to you and your siblings.”

“My siblings? Oh, yeah, my brother and sister. We all thought that.”

Time to try a quick switch. “When was the last time you were at the State Fair?”

“What? What the hell's that got to do with anything?”

“Just wondering how often you went to the fair.”

“I went the first Saturday—the weekend after Pop got killed. The Back Alley Bumper Cars were playing at the grandstand. They're one of my favorite bands.”

“So you're not like your Uncle Vito, who says he never goes to the fair.”

“I hope to hell I'm not like my Uncle Vito in anything I do,” Louie said. “Are we done yet?”

“Almost,” I said. “I heard that you poisoned your neighbor's dog. Is that true?”