Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (20 page)

“Right, and how do you think that rat hole, secondhand store got to be so successful in the last year or so?”

Kim paused, staring at the two men who laughed heartily as they devoured the southern-style seafood dishes they had ordered.

“That’s it, baby. I’ve given you all I know right now. I’m working on 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 143

“ M a v i s K a y e ”

143

this as hard as you. Hot diamonds are one thing, murder is something else—particularly when the killer ain’t showin’ his face and I stand a chance of gettin’ popped.”

“Shelton, you know I can’t hide this, I mean your involvement, from Lt. Jackson, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry, I don’t expect anything less. I don’t mind dealing with this diamond thing—shit, I was just a high-priced courier. My lawyers have me out on the street before Eminem release another one of his lame-ass CDs. But I don’t intend to go down for no murder rap that I didn’t do. I got plans, big plans. Look, if I get anything else, I’ll call. And don’t bother looking, you won’t find me,” he said before hanging up.

“Wait a minute,” she yelled, then slammed the phone shut. After a moment’s thought, she dialed the precinct. Lt. Jackson wasn’t there, but she left an urgent message for him to call her. After sliding her phone back into her bag, she turned toward the corner booth. She had to calm herself because her first impulse was to confront the pair. If Ruff Daddy had been telling the truth, she was sitting forty feet away from two felons and possible murderers. She took a sip from her barely touched martini and drew a deep breath. On the other hand, they could just as well be the next victims, or there was the possibility that Ruff Daddy was lying.

After a few moments’ thought, she settled herself. No matter what, they weren’t going anywhere and she didn’t have any real evidence. All she could really do was tell Lt. Jackson, and, if he believed Ruff Daddy’s allegations, perhaps he’d put them under surveillance. That decided, she still couldn’t resist an occasional quick glance at Mojo and Kwabena.

It was a little after nine when Rick Dupre entered but before Kim could get his attention, he spotted Mojo and walked over to the booth. She watched as Mojo greeted him as if they were old friends, then gestured toward Kwabena, introducing him to Rick. Kwabena stood and shook his hand, and the three men talked for a few minutes before Rick turned and saw Kim at the bar.

16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 144

144

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

He quickly approached her.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek.

“Couldn’t find a spot.”

“That’s okay, but who are the guys in the booth? Somebody you know?”

“Everybody knows Mojo. He owns the Old World Music Shop on 119th Street. Got the best old jams in New York. The other guy is from Africa, a business associate. Why, looking for new clients?”

“No, but they look rather interesting. Want to introduce me?”

“It’s not the best time, they’re talking business now and the African dude, Kwo-Kwabena, has an early flight back to Freetown tomorrow.

Besides, it’s been a long time. I need to talk to you.” He laughed and, taking her hand, led her back toward the dining room.

Kim hesitantly followed, nervously glancing over her shoulder as they moved through the crowded bar. When they reached the Zebra Room, she relaxed a bit despite her concern about Mojo and the African. The fabled jazz lounge had hosted performances by jazz greats ranging from Billie Holiday and Miles Davis to Branford Marsalis and Terrence Blanchard. And Harlem luminaries from Bill

“Bojangles” Robinson and Malcolm X to Representative Charles Rangel and former President Bill Clinton had listened to sounds or dined there. Kim had always felt a sense of exultation when she entered the room, and tonight was no different.

They were seated close to the bandstand and grand piano where John Hicks and his trio had just started their first set. Kim didn’t hear much of the music because Rick spent most of the set trying to explain why he had left her place on the night of Tiffany’s death and why he’d been arrested at an after-hours club. They were halfway through their meal and the set had ended when he noticed that she wasn’t really listening.

“Damn, baby, I’m here pouring my heart out and your head is 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 145

“ M a v i s K a y e ”

145

somewhere else. What’s goin’ on, I thought we here trying to patch things up?”

“Sorry, Rick,” she said, snapping back from her own thoughts. “I’m a little preoccupied.” She reached out and touched his hand.

“Look, why don’t we get outta here and cruise by your place?” he said.

Kim had turned back toward the lounge and was peering at the two men who still sat in the corner when she felt Rick pull at her hand.

“Oh, what did you say?”

“Nothing, baby. Forget it.”

“Uh . . . how did you meet Mojo?” she asked.

“Mojo? We still on that? Look, he ain’t nothin’ but a hustler far as I know. He got the record shop and he runs some kinda self-improvement cult. Got a whole lot of niggas believing they can get in touch with the spirit and improve themselves if they join him. I think it’s some kinda voodoo or—Obeah, I think that’s what he calls it. Too much like that L. Ron Hubbard thing for me.

“Shit might work though, I know a few actors and performers who joined, and every one of them seem to get themselves together right afterward. Some couldn’t get a job no way, and suddenly they were flying off to Europe and Africa for gigs and returning with deep pockets. I thought about it, but, no, it ain’t my thing. I ain’t jettin’ to Jonestown for no wild Kool-Aid party,” he laughed.

“Rick, I’m sorry but I have to leave,” Kim said, suddenly standing and collecting her bag. “It’s not you—I . . . I have to take care of something.”

“What, you got to be kidding!”

“No, I’m not,” she said. She bent and kissed him before dropping a fifty-dollar bill on the table and walking toward the lounge. Mojo and Kwabena were gone, and, when she stepped outside, she glanced up and down Lenox Avenue but didn’t see them. A moment later, she 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 146

146

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

hailed a livery cab. She called the precinct again from the car but Lt.

Jackson had not returned. As the cab pulled up at 99th Street, she decided that tomorrow morning she’d call Josephine St. Claire in New Orleans. Maurice would check out Mojo and Kwabena, if she ever got in touch with him. But she had to do something. Maybe this St. Claire woman in Louisiana knew something, and perhaps, if she was into this thing as deeply as Ruff Daddy said, she could help.

16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 147

,

<

<

,

ELEVEN

Warren, Ohio/Freetown, Sierra Leone—Thursday, August 2

Warren, Ohio

Fra n k N a p o l i n i
kissed his wife, buttoned the jacket of his navy-blue, lightweight wool suit, and stepped out onto the portico of his family’s eight-bedroom mansion. The suit was custom made and imported from Italy, as were most of the mansion’s finer touches, including the inlaid marble tiles on which Napolini now stood. The forty-nine-year-old underboss was a traditionalist. Family and protocol were foremost in his rigidly controlled world. That is why he had insisted on moving into the large house when his father, boss of the Napolini family, moved into a somewhat smaller, more discreet home in an exclusive, gated community in nearby Howland Township. The sprawling twenty-acre plot on which the mansion sat was his fiefdom, a tribute to the family name and a reflection of the rewards that hard work and ruthless business practices could bring. As was his custom, he scanned the manicured lawns, putting green, and Olympic-size 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 148

148

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

pool, and smiled before walking over to the black Lincoln Town Car that awaited him in the circular driveway.

Alonzo Rizzo, his chauffeur, bodyguard, and long-time friend, greeted him. Rizzo, or Snake, as intimate associates called him, was a captain and the most trusted member of Napolini’s crew. Rizzo and Napolini had grown up together, taken the oath, and been “straightened out” at the same time. Although he was a slight, seemingly good-humored man, and weighed only 160 pounds, Rizzo was known for his vicious temper and facility with a garrote or knife. Napolini was more imposing physically. With his heavy eyebrows and bold features, older women insisted he looked like the ’60s movie star, Victor Mature. Fit, more than six feet tall, and weighing about 200 pounds, Napolini looked ten years younger than his age. Still, it was Rizzo who struck fear into those he met.

Inside the car, Napolini sat in back and lit a cigar as Rizzo guided the Lincoln out onto Hidden Lakes Drive, the semiprivate road that led to the mansion. There were two other houses on the isolated, half-mile-long road, one of them owned by a judge from nearby Youngstown who was on Napolini’s payroll. Napolini smiled broadly as he passed the judge’s home. Yes, this was his world, he thought. He controlled every bit of it, even the people he allowed to live on his street.

Normally, at this hour in the afternoon, Napolini would stop by the social club at the rear of his pizza parlor for a meeting with his captains and their soldiers, but today there wasn’t time. He had to attend a sit-down with associates from Cleveland and Detroit at six o’clock. Louie Marino, his consigliere, would take care of things at the club, straighten out any difficulties, and make sure all the pickups had been made. He had other things on his mind. The most pressing of which was his nephew, Riccardo.

He had been almost a father to the kid since Johnnie, his older brother and Riccardo’s father, had been dumped in McKelvey Lake ten years ago. Frank knew it could easily have been he who took the 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 149

“ M a v i s K a y e ”

149

hit; in fact, he should have been the one to put some muscle on the loan shark who was siphoning off family money. His brother had agreed to do it so Frank could see his mistress that night. Frank had never forgiven himself, but he had taken care of his nephew.

The kid was ambitious, maybe overly so, Napolini thought. Riccardo had dropped out of Youngstown State University in his junior year at age twenty-one. A year later he made his first hit and got his button shortly afterward. Frank had brought him along, setting him up with a construction-union kickback scheme and a few small-time gambling operations. But Riccardo had quickly started bringing in his own deals, most recently the diamond scam. It was a money-maker and, so far, had paid big dividends. Riccardo had been made a captain on his thirtieth birthday, shortly after he sealed the deal.

But Napolini wasn’t so sure it was worth all the problems—particularly after the call from Klaus Svrenson, Kees Van derVall’s death, and the Las Vegas hit. All hell was breaking loose, which is why the meeting had been arranged this evening. In addition, Riccardo was getting a little too ambitious for Napolini’s taste. He felt he had to talk to his nephew, set things straight, which is why he’d instructed Rizzo to stop at Joey Chaffaro’s.

The small bar and Southern Italian restaurant on Route 422, the Warren-Niles Strip, was a hangout for Riccardo and his crew. When Rizzo pulled the Lincoln into the parking lot, Napolini immediately recognized Riccardo’s red Porsche. Rizzo preceded him as the two men entered. As usual, at this hour the horseshoe-shaped bar in the front room was filled with a mixed crowd of retirees—locals attracted by the inexpensive food and drink—and a younger group of gamblers, wanna-bes, and connected guys. Most of them knew Napolini, and when he entered nearly all rose to pay their respects. He took a minute to move along the bar, shake hands with a few, and say hello to Rita, the cute, twenty-something bartender who smiled invitingly. Rizzo stood by the door, smiling but scrutinizing every move that was made.

16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 150

150

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

A moment later Napolini strode into the Brier Hill Room to the left of the bar, where Riccardo and two of his guys were seated at a table having a late lunch.

“Uncle Frank, how are you?” Riccardo said as he quickly stood and embraced Napolini before kissing his cheek. He and Rizzo also embraced. Riccardo’s companions repeated the ritual.

“Look, Rico, I need to talk to you,” Napolini said as he sat down at the table. “Tell them to wait outside.”

Riccardo nodded his head, and his guys left without a word. Rizzo followed them and closed the curtains at the entrance. The cute bartender brought Napolini a glass of Chianti, smiled, and left.

“So, what brings you down here to your old haunt?” Riccardo said.

“You ain’t been here since the old days when you and pop used to hang out.”

“Yeah, the good old days, right. And you were always in here trying to sneak out with some booze or get some tail.”

“Hey, the apple don’t fall far from the tree, right?”

Napolini relit his cigar and leaned back in his chair, shifting to a serious expression. “So what’s goin’ on with this diamond thing? Any word on what really happened in Amsterdam or who put out the Las Vegas hit?”

“No . . . ah, not yet,” Riccardo said, nervously fidgeting with his glass.

“I thought you were taking care of the problem.”

“I’m on it, Uncle Frank, I swear. But it’s difficult getting word from Europe, and, over here, everybody’s clamming up. I talked to Pasaro, and he swears he had nothing to do with it. Doesn’t know a thing, he says, although he thought about doing it himself.” Riccardo laughed uneasily. “I’m checking on the others, Lozzi, Marintino, and Anfuso.”