A Killing Fair (14 page)

“You did talk to Eddie. No, that's not true. I've kicked the little bastard's ass when he shit on my lawn, but I never poisoned him. Eddie's a lying son of a bitch if he says I did.”

Interesting choice of expletives while we're talking about a dog. “So you had nothing to do with the dog being poisoned?”

“How could I? I wouldn't even know where to get the stuff.”

“Okay, forget I asked about that. What I really want to know is did you love your father.”

“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I loved my father. Every kid loves his father.”

“I'm glad to hear that. I guess now we're done.”

“Good. Be goddamn careful what you write about me and my mother.”

“I'm always careful what I write about people.”

“You better be extra careful or I'll come down to the paper and kick your ass.”

“Can I quote you on that, Mr. Luciano?”

“You do and I guarantee I'll kick your ass.”

“Have a nice day,” I said as I put down the phone.

Okay, Vito might be right about Louie. Louie had thought he was still inheriting one-third share in the restaurant, and he'd had part of Sunday and all of Monday and Tuesday to find the strychnine left over from poisoning the dog and hire someone to take it to the fair. But where would he find a hit man? Did one of his fellow workers at the lawn service make some extra money that day? I wondered if Swenson's Lawn and Garden Service would tell me if anyone was absent on Wednesday, August 24th.

I looked up Swenson's number and made the call. A real person answered the phone and identified himself as Arne Swenson. He said yes when I asked if he was the owner of Swenson's Lawn and Garden Service, but he thought for a moment before he answered my query about absenteeism. “I don't see how it's any business of the press,” he said.

“Just a routine bit of information for a follow-up story on Mr. Luciano's murder,” I said.

“I don't generally talk to the press about my employees, and I don't think it's right for me to discuss who wasn't at work on any specific day. So, I'll say goodbye then, and you have a nice day.”

I stared at the silent phone for a moment, cursed lightly and put it down. A moment later I smiled and picked up the phone again. I thought I knew who Arne Swenson would talk to about his employees' work records.

“Homicidebrown,” said the person I'd called.

“Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said.

“Hang on a minute,” said Detective Curtis Brown. The minute dragged by for 360 seconds while I listened to some unidentifiable music before he said, “What's up?”

I told Brownie about my conversation with Louie Luciano and asked if he would do me a favor.

“Depends on what it is, but I think I can guess,” Brownie said.

“Would you call Swenson's Lawn and Garden and request absentee records for August 24th? You could say you were investigating a case. Something about immigration maybe. Those places hire a lot of immigrants during the summer.”

He thought for a moment. “It's not really kosher, but it's not really out of order either. Have you asked your pal at Falcon Heights to do it?”

“I wouldn't waste my time calling her because I already know what the answer would be.”

“Okay. I'll make up some story about looking for an illegal immigrant wanted for something or other. I'll call you back.”

Ten minutes later I had my answer. Two employees were absent from Swenson's Lawn and Garden Service that day. The names of the two workers who had called in sick were Louie Luciano and Francisco Garcia, otherwise known as Frankie.

 

Chapter 20: A Fair Day

W
as it time to tell Detective K.G. Barnes about what I'd discovered? Or should I talk to Frankie Garcia first? No-brainer—it had to be Frankie.

I told Don O'Rourke what I had and what I wanted to do. Consequently, Friday morning found me parked on Payne Avenue, half a block from Swenson's Lawn and Garden Service at 6:45 a.m. I knew lawn service people started working early because I'd seen them on the job as I drove to the Daily Dispatch office, where I routinely checked in at 8:00 a.m.

Swenson's headquarters consisted of a small white office building surrounded by a parking lot filled with pickup trucks hitched to flatbed trailers full of yard work equipment. The trucks were all painted bright red and white, like the Norwegian flag, and bore a company logo on each door.

My problem would be identifying Frankie Garcia. I knew it would be useless to ask Arne Swenson to point out an employee, so I was playing it by ear—or I should say by eye—as the men arrived.

The first two workers showed up five minutes after I'd settled back in my seat behind the morning Daily Dispatch. Both were Hispanic. So were the next five to arrive. Number eight was Louie Luciano. He was followed by a Hispanic woman, who in turn was followed by two black men and a 300-pound redheaded white guy. Soon the men began emerging from the office and heading for the trucks. Now I had to guess which truck to follow in hopes of talking to Frankie Garcia.

Louie, bless his heart, helped me to decide. When he emerged from the office, accompanied by the monster redhead and two Hispanics, Louie was talking and laughing with one of the Hispanics. A guy this chummy with Louie would seem to be the best bet to follow. What's more, he was short and slender, about the right size to fit into Fairchild's costume. Of course if he teamed up with Louie I'd have another problem.

Again Louie helped me. He and the redhead got into one truck and the two Hispanics got into another. I ducked very low behind the newspaper as Louie drove past me, and popped up in time to see Frankie—if it was Frankie—drive out of the yard and head south. Damn. I was facing north.

By the time I'd turned around in the nearest parking lot and worked my way into the beginning of rush hour traffic, the Swenson truck was out of sight. I'd be the wrong private eye to send on a stakeout.

After risking my fenders by running two yellow lights, I caught a glimpse of bright red a block ahead of me. I managed to keep the truck in sight as it turned onto a side street, and I followed almost a block behind it as the driver wound through the East Side neighborhood. I said thank you to Arne Swenson for painting his vehicles red.

The truck finally stopped at a two-story brick house sur­rounded by green shrubbery, several flowerbeds and a spacious yard. I drove past, went two blocks beyond the truck, parked and walked back. By the time I reached the men, they had unloaded a riding mower and an electric hedge trimmer.

“Hi,” I said. “Who do you work for?” Like I couldn't tell from the logo on the truck.

The man with the hedge trimmer shook his head. Apparently his English was as poor as my eyesight.

The man seated on the mower pointed to the truck. “Swenson,” he said. “Payne Avenue. Telephone on door.”

“What if I wanted to hire you for a job without paying the company?” I said. “Would you work freelance that way?”

“Work six days a week at Swenson,” the man said. “No time for extra.”

“Couldn't you take a sick day from Swenson? I'd pay you a little more than he does per hour. My name is Warren, by the way. What's yours?”

“Frankie,” said the man. “Swenson don't like sick days.”

“But you must take one now and then,” I said. “You can't work all the time.”

Frankie laughed. “Yeah, but I already take one this month. Better not take no more.”

“What did you do? Take a day and go to the State Fair?”

“Hey, how you guess it?”

The guy with the hedge trimmer started the motor and began clipping, so I had to yell over the buzz. “Just lucky I guess. Did you take your kids?”

“Got no kids. Me and a buddy go out to the fairgrounds. Fair ain't really started that day but we watch the guys set up rides. Watchin' them put up that double Ferris wheel is better than grandstand show.”

“Your buddy work for Swenson, too?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “We both get sick together. So I better not get sick again. You want us, you call Swenson.” He started the mower and was off with a roar.

Back at my car, I slid behind the wheel and called Louie Luciano's home on my cell phone. I asked Louie's wife if he had a cell phone and she gave me his number.

“You lied to me,” I said when Louie answered on his cell.

“Who are you? What are talking about?” he said.

I told him that I'd talked to Frankie and learned that they were both at the State Fairgrounds on the day of his father's murder.

“Okay, I was there at the Midway,” Louie said. “I thought you was asking if I was at Pop's program.”

“Were asking, and I asked both questions,” I said. There was that reflex correction popping out again. “You told me you'd only been to the fair the following Saturday.”

“Okay, okay. I didn't understand the question. I didn't lie to you. I was at the fair with Frankie but we was at least a block away from Pop's program. We never went near Heritage Square. In fact, Pop was dead and in the morgue by the time we heard about what happened. I didn't know about him getting killed until Mom called after I got home.”

“You didn't hear the sirens from the Midway?” I said.

“You kidding? With the noise they make setting up those rides you couldn't hear a bomb if it hit Heritage Square and blew it to pieces.”

“Maybe that's true,” I said. “But can anybody other than Frankie tell me everything you did at the fairgrounds that day?”

“I didn't see nobody else that I knew, if that's what you mean,” Louie said.

I gritted my teeth and managed not to correct the “nobody” else. “That's what I mean. Can anybody other than Frankie verify your claim that neither of you went near your father's program?”

“You asshole. Do you think that I could've killed Pops?”

“If the shoe fits, lace it up,” I said.

“Well, I didn't. And if you print that I did I'll come to your office and kick your goddamn ass all the way to the fairgrounds.”

 

* * *

 

“You got enough for a story?” Don O'Rourke asked when I returned to the newsroom.

“I can't use any names, but I think I can do a piece saying the Daily Dispatch has learned this and learned that from unofficial sources,” I said. “Then I'll run it past our tight-lipped buddy in Falcon Heights and see if it inspires a comment.”

“Give it a shot,” Don said. “Maybe it'll get the cops off their butts.”

So I gave it a shot, writing that through unofficial sources the Daily Dispatch has learned that a person with a strong motive for killing Vinnie Luciano was at the State Fairgrounds the day of the murder, accompanied by a person whose stature matches that of the person who wore a stolen Fairchild costume while delivering the poison to the victim. I added that although both persons deny involvement in the killing they cannot provide proof of their activities at the fairgrounds.

With fifteen minutes to go before deadline, I called Detective K.G. Barnes. To my amazement, she was available immediately.

“This is what we're running today and I'd like your comment,” I said. I read her the story and held the phone two inches away from my ear. I had no problem hearing KGB's reply.

“Are you crazy?” she yelled. “You can't run that.”

“Give me three reasons why not,” I said.

“Number one, it's libelous.”

“Who am I libeling? There's no names mentioned.”

“Your anonymous suspect will sue you.”

“And get his name in the paper as the plaintiff in the lawsuit? I doubt it.”

“We'll sue you.”

“On what grounds?” I asked.

“You're meddling in a murder investigation,” KGB said.

“When did that become a crime? I'm neither interfering with nor hindering your investigation. If anything, I'm helping you by uncovering a person of interest. If you want the names I'll give them to you. Got any more reasons we can't print the story?”

“Yes. You're printing unfounded rumors.”

“Wrong. The story is based on face-to-face interviews with the people involved.”

“How about we forbid you to print it?”

“How about I read you the First Amendment?”

“You're a crazy, out-of-control reporter chasing stories that aren't there.”

“Is that the comment you want us to print?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “No, wait. We need to talk to the chief.”

“You've got five minutes to talk to her and get back to me.”

“What if we can't do it in five minutes?”

“Then I'll write that Falcon Heights police refused to comment.” I heard the receiver slam down and the line went dead.

“What are you grinning about?” asked Corinne Ramey, who'd been eavesdropping at the next desk.

“I just went one-up on my favorite bitch,” I said. “Which reminds me, did you get to call Falcon Heights on my day off.”

“I did. And Detective Barnes will never tell you how sweet I am again. I worked her over for a good five minutes trying to pry out some information.”

“Tough couple of days for the KGB,” I said.

Four minutes later my phone rang and I found myself talking to Falcon Heights Police Chief Victoria Tubb. “I strongly urge you not to print that story, Mr. Mitchell,” she said.

“Three reasons why,” I said.

“You're mucking around in something you know nothing about.”

“Can you prove to me that the story isn't accurate?”

“It's all based on anonymous interviews so I don't know if it's accurate or not. My problem is that you're talking to people without police permission.”

“Show me a law that says I need police permission to ‘muck around,' as you so colorfully describe it.”

“There's no law,” the chief said. “It just isn't done. It's not, uh, it's not gentlemanly.”

“It has been done before in America and it will be done in the future,” I said. “Now, do you have a printable official comment on the story or not?”

“My official comment is that I have no comment on a story that to my knowledge has no basis in fact.”

“That's it?”

“That's it. And I want the names of the people you've interviewed or I swear I will charge you with obstructing justice.”

“I'll call Detective Barnes and give her the names as soon as the story is in print,” I said. “Have a good day, Chief Tubb.” This time I got to hang up the phone, but I did it in a gentlemanly manner.

As I added the chief's comment to my story, I wondered what would happen when Louie Luciano read it. Would he really come to the office to kick my ass?