Investigation (17 page)

“Mrs. Martucci, I have to ask you some questions. About a somewhat ... delicate matter.” I don’t think in my whole life I had ever used that expression: a somewhat delicate matter.

She stopped stirring the small silver spoon in her cup and looked at me coolly. “There is nothing delicate about it. A whore is a whore.”

That brought me up sharp. “You know, then, about your husband’s relationship with Kitty Keeler?”

She put the cup down on the tray and folded her white hands in her lap. They were startling, like ivory, against the dark velvet. “I know what goes on between such a woman and a man.”

“Do you know Kitty Keeler?”

I could have sworn she made a spitting sound; at least, a sort of hissing. “I would not know such a woman.” Then, in almost a whisper, telling me a secret, “There are
many men
who know this woman. Many. Married men, unmarried men. It means nothing to a ... a woman such as this.”

“Do you know of anyone at all who might have a reason to do such a terrible thing to Mrs. Keeler’s children?”

Without hesitation, she flashed back, “To
her,
yes. To her
children,
no.” Her back pulled away from the chair; she moved her long hands, one inside the other. “A woman like this, with no respect for marriage, for her own or another person’s, brings down terrible things on her own head. A woman like this, with no heart,” she brought a hand up to her breast, “who knows what such a woman is responsible for?” She was silent for a moment and I was about to ask a question, but she added, slowly, deciding whether or not to continue, “There are many women whose lives have been damaged by this woman.” She hesitated, then added softly, “A poor crippled woman ...”

I leaned forward. “I’m sorry, did you say a crippled woman? Who would that be?”

She moved her head from side to side; there was a strange light coming from her eyes. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, but not in a smile. “Maybe you will find out something about that.” She shrugged. “Maybe not, I do not know.”

She sat as still as a picture; her face was serene and beautiful and yet she gave off certain sparks, tensions, signals, that were contradictory. She held up the plate of cakes toward me, and when I shook my head she carefully selected a little pink-iced square for herself, placed it on a plate, took tiny crumbs of it on her silver fork, inserted the fork between her barely parted lips, then licked the end of the fork with the tip of her tongue. All the time, she watched me, her eyes huge and amused.

“Mrs. Martucci, we have serious reasons to believe that your husband is implicated in the death of Kitty Keeler’s two sons.”

She put the plate down, as though she’d had all the nourishment she needed. She dabbed at her mouth with a heavy linen napkin, then said softly, “My husband was in Phoenix. He only arrived home last night.”

“He spoke to Kitty Keeler twice on the night the children were murdered. Immediately after they were dead.”

“How would I know about this? What is it you want from me? Why do you not question my husband?”

“If we are right, Mrs. Martucci, and I believe we are, your husband gave Mrs. Keeler advice that night, regarding the boys. When we prove it, your husband can be charged with murder.”

“My husband has been charged with many things in his lifetime. I do not involve myself in his affairs.”

She moved one hand, brought it across her body to rest on the opposite arm, then slowly, languidly, she moved her hand up and down, from shoulder to elbow. Her face showed pleasure, the kind of pleasure a cat feels when being stroked the right way.

She had that half-smile again; an indication that she was aware of her impact on me. That she was radiating sensuality with a simple, innocent, nonsexual motion. There was a hard light in the center of her black eyes and now I could see that she and Vincent Martucci were not mismatched.

“Mrs. Martucci, where were
you
on Wednesday night, between, say, ten o’clock and midnight?”

She dropped her hand to her lap, moved back against the chair and smiled. “I was at Our Lady of the Martyrs. We are sewing and preparing baskets for the victims of the flooding in Guatemala. My chauffeur dropped me home at twelve-thirty and then he drove Father Collins to his residence on the campus at St. John’s.” She began the stroking of her arm again; tilted her head to one side. “Can I help you with anything else? Anything at all?”

I considered for a moment, shook my head. “Maybe some other time.”

“Perhaps.” The word offered something; in and of itself, a harmless, meaningless word, but from her lips the word conveyed several meanings. I wasn’t sure at this point whether she was merely amusing herself or challenging me to interpret what she didn’t choose to say openly. I don’t mind games when I’m in on the rules, but this lady kept everything secret; kept the advantage and enjoyed my discomfiture. When she stood up, her hands lightly skimmed the outlines of her body, and she moved silently into the two-story-high hallway. I took a minute to take it all in: the sweeping curved marble staircase, the various paintings, the handsome grandfather clock, ticking steadily, softly, the dazzling crystal chandelier hanging on a gleaming chain from the high ceiling, then I turned to Maria Martucci.

Her eyes fastened on my mouth; my lips began to tingle. I tried to be casual about rubbing my thumb along my lower lip. Without a word, a sound, a gesture, the lady made me aware of her great, deep hunger. Games. The lady was playing games again.

“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Martucci. I guess you know—or would want to know. Your husband is up in Yonkers right now. In some diner with Kitty Keeler. Consoling her, probably, the way a good friend would.”

Her mouth turned down; her lips parted and pulled back; her teeth glinted. Her dark eyes hardened and glowed with an ancient, undeniable hatred and demand for revenge for injuries suffered. Her hands rolled into tight fists at her side and she leaned toward me.

“She has no right to the man of another woman. No right to the father of my children.” Her hands came up, together, and rested at the base of her throat. She whispered in a harsh voice as though I was someone she needed to confide in, “The nights
I
have spent alone;
my
empty bed;
my
empty body. Do you not think that
I
have suffered, while she, the whore, has drained the juices from my husband? For her, let there be no end of the suffering. Her children are in God’s hands now.” She let her hands fall to her sides and she smiled tightly with anticipation and said with absolute certainty, “God will see to her.” She nodded and repeated, “Yes. God will see to her.”

I heard the heavy door close behind me, followed by the resetting of the various locks.

So much for the Madonna of Forest Hills Gardens.

T
HE LAST TIME ALFREDO
Veronne’s name hit the papers was about four years ago when his son-in-law, Ray Mogliano, stepped into his Cadillac, turned the ignition key and, along with a young fill-in cocktail waitress, blew up all over the parking lot of a popular Nassau County roadhouse managed by Ray and his brother, John Mogliano, and owned by Veronne. The regular cocktail waitress and more or less steady girl friend of Ray had been home sick that night. If she hadn’t been home sick that night, little pieces of Kitty Keeler would probably have been scattered all over the parking lot. So it was very lucky that Kitty was sick that particular night.

Not surprisingly, no arrest was ever made for the bombing; according to Paul Sutro, the word was that since Alfredo Veronne objected to divorce on religious grounds, he had little choice when his well-loved only daughter complained to Papa about her wayward husband. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it was an open secret that Ray had been ripping his father-in-law off; Mogliano had been known to brag that no one could touch him. As it turned out, he was wrong.

Until that incident, anyone interested in such things would have assumed that Alfredo Veronne, in company with his contemporaries Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello, had long since made his peace with his Maker. Although he was now deathly ill, Veronne was not yet dead.

When Alfredo Veronne’s name and unlisted telephone number turned up in Kitty Keeler’s little pink book, Paul Sutro’s amazing memory came up with a significant detail. According to what’s called “information received,” the officers investigating the bombing learned that on the afternoon of the night that Ray Mogliano exploded, someone called Kitty Keeler and told her she was going to be sick that night and she better get right into bed and stay home and take care of herself.

Which could mean, apparently, that Papa Veronne didn’t blame Kitty for his son-in-law’s behavior; in fact, that he thought enough of Kitty to do her a favor. Like save her life. And maybe like send someone over to Fresh Meadows to help her dump a couple of small bodies.

In the not too distant past, Alfredo Veronne, with a blink of an eye or a flick of a finger, could have condemned a man to a most horrible death. The mention of his name had been sufficient when money or a service was demanded. His name, face and organization were familiar to nearly three generations of governmental agencies which had been formed to study and combat organized crime. There were at least three popular writers collating material about his most colorful days which they hoped to capitalize on once the old man was dead; which shows there is an honest buck to be made from organized crime.

Veronne now languished in the beautiful stone house in fashionable Great Neck where he had raised his family of five sons and one daughter. His sons had all gone to good colleges and were all established in legitimate enterprises. More or less. He had many fine grandchildren. Impressed by the wisdom of old-fashioned American millionaires, as each grandchild was born Papa Veronne established a million-dollar trust fund for the infant. Something which Alfredo’s stonecutter father in Sicily never would have thought of.

Alfredo Veronne was a cordial host. From his sickbed, he waved his hand, offering me any kind of refreshment: food, liquor, fruit, candies, cookies, anything. The table next to his bed was well stocked and tempting.

“I’d just like to talk with you, Mr. Veronne.”

“Well, since you do not accept my hospitality,” he sounded offended, “what is it you have come to see me about?”

Veronne’s voice was raspy, low in his throat, hoarse. Some nodules had been removed from his vocal cords, but others were growing back. He touched his wrinkled throat with a bloated hand as though he owed me an apology for his inability to speak louder.

“Mr. Veronne, you’ve heard about the murder of Kitty Keeler’s two sons?”

“Terrible. Two such small children. Terrible. A bad thing.”

“Do you know anyone at all who might do such a thing?”

Alfredo Veronne closed his tiny eyes and whispered, “People might do
anything
at all, for any
reason
at all.” The dark, bright rat eyes sprang open and studied me shrewdly. “Who can know another person’s mind? But you ask me this particular thing and I must say no. I know of no one in this instance who might have done such a thing.” He moved his head slightly and added, “I have heard nothing.” As if, had there been anything to hear, it would have reached his ears inside this beautiful dark-paneled bedroom with its massive fourposter bed, huge gold-framed paintings, Oriental rugs, stained-glass windows.

“Tell me about your son-in-law, Ray Mogliano.”

Veronne’s body jerked up on the pillows and his face was surprised, as though he’d been jerked upright by an outside force. He carefully relaxed and seemed in pain as he slid down slightly. His brows, thin and scraggly gray, like his remaining hair, moved close together over his thin nose, and his mouth worked, lips pulling downward as though trying out suitable words. Finally his lips twisted and deep in his throat he simulated a spitting sound.

“Dead. No great loss.”

“Because he was sleeping with Kitty Keeler?”

The old man blinked quickly to clear his vision. His head tilted toward one shoulder as he stared at me. He smiled slightly, an unpleasant baring of his square yellowish false teeth, and he nodded his compliment. “Very direct. Yes. You are very direct. Sometimes, that is good. Sometimes it can be very dangerous, you know?” He considered his own words for a moment, then made a cackling, laughing sound. He held up his swollen hands, let them fall stiffly to his sides, indicating his helplessness, his inability to move from the bed, the senselessness of either threats or denials.

“What the hell, what you gonna do to me? Crazy world, anyways. They let a punk kid take a walk if he murders some poor old retired shopkeeper.” He shook his head, clearly outraged. “These little punk bastards who beat old people because they’re helpless.” He muttered to himself, realized he had lost track of what he had started out with; came back to it. “Mogliano, that bum. It was a long time ago, what, four, five years? Time runs together for me now, it’s tough to get old, huh, kid? But me, I’ve made my peace; I’ve squared my accounts, so what the hell? You know something, he wasn’t even worth the effort.” He scratched at an eyebrow, then shook his head. “I regret the girl, though. In the old days, it would have been a clean hit, but, like everything else, there are no more quality workers left, you know?”

“Was it a try for Kitty Keeler?”

He waved his annoyance at me; changed his opinion of me. I was stupid after all. “Ah, you have a one-track mind. Kitty Keeler, Kitty Keeler. Listen, pal,” his eyes narrowed and his voice, though still painful and rasping, was strong, certain, “if it had been a try for Kitty Keeler, Kitty Keeler would have been hit. If not in the car with that bum, Mogliano, then another time. The woman was not important.” He clenched his hand into a fist and shook it at me. “With that bum, it was any woman. It was for the
insult to my daughter!
He held my daughter up to public contempt, as though it did not matter that he made his affairs with women common knowledge.” In a softer voice, he said, “Men are men; they will seek out women, what the hell. But we use discretion; we respect our wives. My wife, may she rest in peace,” he crossed himself reverently, “forty-two years we were married when she left me for heaven, and not once, in all those years, did she ever know about any of my women. Respect; see. You gotta have respect, but this Mogliano, this bum, he respected nothin’.” He leaned back, his head sank into the collection of large, soft pillows. He held out his hands, wrists together; they shook. “So, what you gonna do, cop, ya gonna arrest me?”