The Dog Killer of Utica (15 page)

“Hard to disagree.”

“You agree whoever shot your friend in Troy and then your friend’s dog the next day is most likely the same person?”

“Definitely.”

“So far everything, the two dogs, Freddy, and Rintrona, it’s connected to the same person?”

“Makes sense, but far-out alternative scenarios could be imagined.”

“The theory works even with last night’s killing.”

“What?! Who?”

“Dragan Kovac, maybe a minute or so after you pulled away in your socks.”

Conte cannot respond. He sips his coffee. Once, twice, thrice.

“Not just any kind of shooting, either. Shotgun. One in the chest, which is unsurvivable, according to the coroner’s preliminary report, and one in the face, which obliterates the face. What a mess, you wouldn’t believe. Close range. Very close. You knew the guy well?”

“Whenever Senzalma and I—whenever, Jesus Christ, whenever we got together at Joey’s, he’s the first layer of security at the back door. He frisks me. A sweet lunk of a guy. Like a big child. Jesus Christ, Don, I can’t take this.”

(Conte sinks into the couch. Belmonte continues to stand.)

“I’m sorry, Eliot, but I’m running out of time. Two dogs and two humans killed and an attempt on another human, your pal Rintrona. Five events in three days. Someone is bingeing. Where does it end? I have a lot of work ahead of me. They threw me the Kovac killing. My theory says it’s the same guy who did Freddy and everything else. Including Kovac.”

“Why?”

“The unnecessary viciousness of the attack. Freddy’s dead. He virtually decapitates him and cuts off his dick. Freddy’s
dick is nowhere to be found. Did the killer eat it? Kovac is dead, point-blank blast, he blasts again, point-blank, with a shotgun in order to make maximum ugliness of the body.”

“Motive, Don?”

“Who cares? We have a pattern.”

“That links maybe a perverted killer, you’re telling me, to the rest? What possible—”

“Forget motive. Give me a latent print on the shell casing, we got the guy. The real question, now, is what do sexual mutilation and dog killing have to do with the attempt on Rintrona’s life? Rintrona, your pal, why was he first? Every one of these events is in proximity to you.
You
. Even Freddy, who Mendoza went through his receipts from the day of his death and found your credit card had been run for a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. You are somehow at the center.”

“I’m having trouble accepting that part of the theory.”

“Who the heck would want to be at the center of this sickness? Here’s my question, which I don’t expect you to answer now, but eventually. Soon. Rintrona was first. That’s the key. Your friend. What is it that links you to Rintrona that triggers everything? I’ll be back for another cappuccino and the answer. You have forty-eight hours, until Saturday noon, then I arrest you for obstruction of justice because of the casing. Can I say what a shame you and Catherine are separated? Your face says it all. You look lousy, Eliot.”

He goes.

Conte knows the answer to Belmonte’s question. He begins to imagine the far-out scenario, whose author is Antonio Robinson.

Under the dead light of an overcast sky—forty degrees with a steady north wind slicing through his leather jacket—hatless Conte trods carelessly over icy sidewalks. Twelve minutes later, he knocks. The door opens, Catherine Cruz throws her hands to her face. Speechless, she embraces him while he explains—thinking, Is this man beyond help? He says, “Let’s change the subject.”

He enters, inhaling with pleasure. Walks about the apartment. Says, “Nice. New paint job.” She tells him that Tom Castellano had every inch of every wall, ceiling, and woodwork repainted last year, and again a few days ago, even though the apartment lay tenantless all the while.

“When I signed the lease”—she as eager as he for distraction—“Tom said the odors of the past in here were stubborn ghosts that sucked his blood, and they’d suck mine too. He said he repainted for both our sakes. Tom said people should repaint their houses in and out, especially in, at least once a year—because who wants to live with the memories of themselves?”

“Amen.”

“I don’t, Tom said, do you. Then Tom added, I hope to Christ you and Eliot are not permanently on the outs. Is he as unhappy, El, as he sounds?”

“Tom’s the happy philosopher of gloom.”

“Are you as unhappy as you look?”

“Off topic.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Paint.”

“Are we as unhappy as we look?”

He doesn’t respond. Sits on the couch. She sits on the chair opposite.

“Say something, El.”

“Why are you sitting over there?”

“You know why.”

“We permanently on the outs, Catherine?”

“Permanently is death.”

“Come home.”

“Eventually I’ll—”

“When?”

“One day at a time.”

“For how many days?”

She says nothing.

“I can’t repaint my mind, Catherine.”

She comes over and sits beside him. Takes his hand.

“Don has a theory, Catherine. About all of the shootings.”

“I know. He laid it on me last night, but not before asking if you owned a shotgun.”

“No stone unturned. You see why it’s a correct theory, don’t you? The shooter could easily have gotten me, but chose instead to murder Dragan Kovac.”

“It’s only a theory, El. High-level bullshit. We need facts.”

“You could be a target.”

“And Tom? His German shepherd?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we gather all our friends and their dogs and the kid next door, Angel, and take them to Fort Knox?” (She smiles a small, unhappy smile.)

“Yes, Catherine. Everybody to Fort Knox. You might be on a serial killer’s list.”

“Could be. Might be. Where are the hard facts that we need to stop this thing? Here’s one: Don learned that Antonio was not at home when the shooting of his dog and wounding of Millicent went down.”

“Don told me this morning.”

“What shall we conclude from this? Nothing. It’s just a lonely fact. Hard fact number 2: Don got the results from the tests done in Syracuse on the two weapons in UPD storage that we conclusively link to Troy. No evidence those guns were recently fired. This is definitive. But the technician noticed something interesting. The guns were immaculately clean in and out. No residues. No prints.
Redolent
, was the word she used, of solvents and oil. Not to be expected from guns that’d been lying in uncovered bins, in the UPD basement for three and four years respectively. The technician says no question these guns were very recently cleaned. Hard fact number 3: Don had our crime-scene forensics girl take a look at the Chief’s driveway and adjacent lawn areas. She went with a flashlight and metal detector while Antonio was at the mayor’s dinner last night. She was looking for the bullet. Or, more likely, its fragments.”

“Let me guess, Catherine. She found nothing and Don concludes Antonio scooped up the evidence. Antonio goes to the mayor’s dinner with Millicent in the hospital? Is that right? On the day she’s shot?”

“Correct on both counts. These three hard facts are three unimpeachable witnesses on the same page.”

“Don told me this morning it’s crazy to conclude Antonio’s our man. I think it’s crazy too—and I think it isn’t.”

“Don’s a pro, Eliot. He thinks all private eyes are amateurs at best and loose cannons at worst. He was holding out on you.”

“Think I’m a loose cannon, Catherine?”

“Don’t you?” (Her voice cracking. Steeling herself.)

(Pause.)

“So he doesn’t let me in on the constellation of hard facts, but tells you, not expecting you’d pass it on?”

“He told you half of his theory, El. The other half is Antonio plus an accomplice.”

“This is very high-level bullshit.”

“When we’re desperate, even bullshit—he doesn’t think Antonio could have done it all. Don surmises that Antonio was the designer, but actually never himself—”

“Where’s the motive for all this violence? I know, I know. Forget motive, find the pattern of facts. Bobby Rintrona, I can see it, and so can you. But the rest?”

“When we’re desperate—”

He lays his head in her lap. She, who needs stroking, strokes his hair.

“So now you’ve betrayed the confidence of your partner by telling me the other half of his theory, and this is how we’re intimate these days. But I don’t buy it. Antonio’s no psycho architect, though at this point it looks bad. Let’s meet at Toma’s for late lunch. Say yes.”

“Yes.”

“One o’clock at Toma’s.”

“Got it.”

Conte at the door.

“You just got here. What’s the hurry?”

Her question pleases him. Thinks it means that “eventually” won’t be all that long.

He says, “I need to visit Anthony Senzalma at Saint Elizabeth’s. He’s had some sort of breakdown in the wake of last night.”

“Millicent is there too.”

“I’ll see them both.”

At Saint Elizabeth’s: The door to Senzalma’s private room is closed. Seated alongside, her weapon concealed, Geraldine Williams in designer jeans and a sky-blue blazer. As he approaches she stands, “He’ll be happy to know you came when I inform him, but forget about going in, Mr. Conte. They gave him something special at breakfast. Twenty minutes ago I asked him how he felt. He points to the monitor and says, ‘I saw myself on television eating ice cream.’ ”

“Give him my best.”

“Yes.”

“Geraldine—”

“Yes.”

“I assume you were both questioned last night by Detective Belmonte.”

“Yes.”

“Did Anthony give him anything of interest?”

“He gave nonstop weeping.”

“How about you, Geraldine? What can you tell me?”

“I saw nothing. I heard very loud music, thanks to you.”

“To me?”

“You left the door ajar when you exited with your panties in a bunch.”

“What kind of music?”

“People who like it call it classical.”

“Orchestral or vocal?”

“Vocal, if you call a man screaming ‘music.’ ”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“If you think of anything—”

“I won’t.”

“Tell Anthony to call me when—”

“He will. You’re all he’s got.”

“You lost a colleague. I’m sorry.”

“Yes.”

“He was a sweet guy.”

“Was.”

“Uh, the music—fast or slow?”

“Fast. Depart, Mr. Conte.”

The door to Millicent Robinson’s room is open. She’s in bed, sitting up, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. He knocks.

“Look who’s here—oh, dear Eliot! Whatever happened to you?”

“It’s nothing. I fell.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

He takes her hand, kisses her tenderly on the cheek: “Believe that.”

“Do that many more times, Eliot. Slowly.” He blushes.

“Relax, hon’. I don’t have anything naughty in mind. At this time. Now tell me the truth about what—”

“Milly, this is the truth—if I wasn’t already madly in love, and if you weren’t married to my best friend, I’d sweep you right off your feet.”

“True lust, Eliot Conte, jumps over all obstacles. With ease. Your physique is lookin’ mighty fine with all that working out you do.”

He sits on the side of the bed.

“Shall I lock the door, Milly? Shall we practice before the main event?”

“I don’t need practice, Eliot Conte, do you?”

He laughs. The grin lends a more horrifying aspect to his battered face.

She fixes him with a hard look. All playfulness gone. She says, “We’ve been seeing less and less of you for some time. How come?”

“We need to get back to old times, Milly. I’ve missed you both.”

Can two dear friends, virtual brothers from childhood, possibly bear one another’s company, one another’s sight, after collaborating in murder of the first degree?

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Knee replacement. After the holidays.”

“In a lot of pain?”

“Not after what they gave me.”

“Hard to believe what happened. The dog. You by accident. Who would do such a sick thing? Good thing Robby was at home.”

“Who told you that? Who told you he was at home?”

“He’s off Wednesday afternoons.”

“He wasn’t at home at the time. I had to crawl into the house and call him. He answered a half hour later. Know where he was? Bowling by himself, he claimed. Know what he was doing? Putting a heavy hard thing in the pocket. A strike in the pocket.”

“That how he refers to bowling?”

“No, Eliot Conte, that is how I refer to fucking. He’s been having an affair for the last two years, which is why he doesn’t put a hard thing in my pocket.”

Blushing, looking away: “Are you certain?”

“Does the Pope masturbate?”

“I’m stunned. You sure?”

“Like I said.”

He looks away.

“This—Jesus, Milly. Sorry, I have a one o’clock appointment—I need to leave soon. What I want you to know, just between us, I’m pursuing an investigation of the shooting. Do you have any idea—”

“Some crazy-ass white teenage male with a gun having him some fun at this nigger lady’s expense.”

“I have a big favor to ask, Milly: Please don’t tell Robby I paid you a visit.”

“Don’t worry. He wouldn’t be jealous because he’s having fun with his big, black gun.”

“Think of it this way. He’s got a private thing going, which we’re supposedly in the dark about. Especially you. We also have a private thing going—let’s keep it that way.”

“What private thing do we have, Eliot? We haven’t done anything. Yet.” She laughs a naughty laugh.

Conte’s in a bind. Robby must not know that he knows Robby lied about Milly being in Florida. He thinks it through: 1) She’s angry at her philandering husband. 2) She’s vulnerable. 3) She wants revenge. 4) He takes her (therefore) in his arms and kisses her deep on the mouth.

“Yet, Milly. We haven’t done anything yet.”

Kisses her deep again and leaves her, breathless and beautiful.

In the car, in the hospital parking lot, Conte checks e-mail on his iPhone. Nikki Ryan and Angel Moreno have responded. She gives him the address, in Utica’s formerly exclusive, Waspy suburb of New Hartford, of Jonathan Figgins, owner of The Gay Martini, who appears nightly near closing time, 1:50
A.M
. sharp, carrying a handgun, to collect cash and credit card receipts. Drives silver Audi A8. Sandy colored hair, 5’8”, slim. Will spend night at her parents’, North Utica, 424 Sunlit Terrace. “Jonathan is not especially fit. Thought you’d like to know.”