Misty River, page 8
“I’ve got you covered,”
The following morning at six, Ralph knocked on Valerie Fleming’s door and announced his presence.
“Valerie, I know you’re home. Your vehicle is in the driveway. I can have a tow truck here within five minutes if that’s how you want to roll. It’s your choice. By now, you know I’m not playing.”
The front door slowly opened and out walked Valerie. “Why the fuck do you keep harassing me? Do you want me to call the sheriff?”
“Be my guest. While you’re at it, why don’t you call your boyfriend Buck? Oh, I forgot his fat ass is in jail. And that’s where you will wind up if you keep up your ‘leave me alone, I’m just a poor victim caught up in this mess’ attitude. I’ve seen that bullshit act done better. You need to understand you’re not the victim here. Olivia Spencer and Frank Amoia are the victims. You’re a witness in a murder and a rape case, a material witness. If you choose not to cooperate, that’s fine. In fact, I hope you do so that I can bring you before a judge on a material witness warrant, and you can explain why they shouldn’t lock your sorry ass up. Hell, I should just arrest you now.”
Valerie leaned against the open door, her hands in the pockets of her robe. “What the hell for?”
“How about obstruction of justice, harboring a fugitive, or just being a pain in the ass.”
“I get it already. Give me five minutes to throw on some clothes and get my purse.”
Ralph and Jennifer sat on either side of Valerie in the prosecutor’s small conference room. Blake walked in with Detectives Massey and Barnes and laid what appeared to be a law book and some paperwork on the conference table, making sure Valerie noticed.
He took a seat, and as he pulled his chair closer to the table, he held Valerie’s eyes. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me. Ralph told me how eager you are to do what’s right, but you’ll have to do three things this time. First, you’ll have to admit you lied to Detective Massey when you recanted your statement that Owens killed Amoia. Second, you’ll have to take the lie back. And third, you’ll have to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. Do you understand?”
“That’s cute. But yes, I’m ready.”
“Please state your full name and date of birth.”
“Valerie Joan Fleming. July 16, 1947.”
“And are you currently employed?”
“I do manicures at the Luxury Nail Spa on Brown Street.”
“Please understand that if you lie to me, I’ll charge you as an accomplice after the fact to murder. You’ve told Detective Massey that Buck set you up to be charged as an accessory, so you recanted your story. You were also afraid Buck would kill you if you snitched on him. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
Blake was fully attentive, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “Tell us what you know about the murder of Frank Amoia and the rape of Olivia Spencer.”
“I know Buck killed Mr. Amoia. He said he would kill me if I told on him. That day, he came home around eight in the morning after being out all night drinking.”
“Are you referring to the morning of Saturday, March 2, 1985?”
“Yes, I vividly remember the day because when he came in, he was out of breath, acting weird, with fresh blood on his jacket, pants, and boots. Then he reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wad of money covered in blood. When I asked him where it came from, he told me some half-baked story about a man robbing him. He said he’d fought the guy off, stabbed him, and took his money. I didn’t know what to think at first. Then he wanted to watch the news, which wasn’t like him. That’s when I learned Mr. Amoia had been found dead in the bakery and realized the robbery story was bullshit. Buck figured I’d put two and two together, so he said he’d kill me if I told on him. Then he made me go with him to ditch his bloody clothes, and I saw him wrap his bloody Buck knife and the sheath in the clothes. He told me I was an accessory to murder and would go to prison for the rest of my life if I told on him. That’s the God’s honest fucking truth.”
Detective Massey, who had been bent over his notebook, looked up. “Thank you, Ms. Fleming. We just want the truth so that we can hold Mr. Amoia’s killer accountable and bring closure to his family.”
Blake said, “Now tell us about the rape.”
Valerie choked up, and Jennifer handed her a tissue box and a glass of water. “Relax,” she whispered, “take a breath and drink water. You’re doing fine.”
“It was nighttime,” Valerie said, wiping her eyes. “I guess around midnight. I was in bed when I heard Buck come into the house. So, I got up to see what was going on, and he was sitting in his chair in the living room with his eyes wide open, just staring at the ceiling like his mind was elsewhere. His clothes and hair were messy, and he was all sweaty.
“I asked him what was going on, but he didn’t answer me. He just stood up, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a ring, and stared at it. I asked him why he had the ring and where he got it, and he said, ‘Baby, I got it for you. I want you to marry me.’”
“I didn’t know what to say. Before I could answer, he approached me, took my hand, and tried to put the ring on my finger, but it didn’t fit.
“The next day, he turned the television on to watch the news. I said to myself, ‘This isn’t going to be good.’ Channel Seven was reporting about a woman raped in the woods near the Misty River. I thought, ‘Please don’t tell me Buck did this.’ A sheriff sketch of the suspect came on for what seemed like forever, and I knew Buck raped that woman. Buck saw the expression on my face, and said he’d kill me if I told on him.
“The first thought in my head was, It’s my fault the lady was raped. Then I went to the bathroom and threw up.”
“Thank you.” Blake asked, “How does it feel to tell the truth finally?”
“Like the world’s weight has finally been lifted off my shoulders.”
“Valerie, we will do everything we can to ensure Owens spends the rest of his life in prison.”
“Moretti, that’s great. But you’d better watch out. Owens is a sociopath. Never underestimate Owens’s cunning and manipulative nature. It’s a sure bet he has a plan to escape justice.”
CHAPTER 13
Do Me A Favor
March 25, 1987, Wednesday Late night
Sonny Calo exuded an air of sophistication as he occupied the seat directly opposite the intricately carved cherry wood bar. Adorned with his trademark white carnation, elegantly pinned to the lapel of his impeccably tailored Brioni suit worth a staggering six thousand dollars, he commanded attention in the upscale establishment. The smooth jazz melodies gracefully wafting through the background further enhanced the ambiance. As he sipped on bourbon and anxiously awaited, Blake’s arrival, a young blonde woman in a too-short skirt cozied up beside him.
Blake knew Sonny, but he didn’t have a clue who the young blonde woman was sitting beside him, wearing a skirt hiked up way too far. As Blake approached, the woman took a cigarette from a gold case and Sonny lit it.
“Moretti! Sit down. Posso offrirti da bere?”
“I’ll pass. I’m driving.”
Calo turned to his date. “Why don’t you and Sal have a drink at the bar while I conduct business with my friend?”
“All right, but don’t be long.”
When she left, he leaned in and asked, “Moretti, is my lady friend hot or what?”
“Are all your goomas underage hookers?”
“I understand you dislike me, but please respect my lady friend. Listen, Mary Amoia has something that belongs to one of my friends, and he wants it back. She’s unaware of the problem.”
“Like what?”
“Like two hundred thousand smackers. I need your help to get it back for my friend.”
“Sonny, the police recovered fifty thousand dollars stuffed in a crockpot. I don’t know anything about the two hundred thousand dollars. What do you know about the fifty thousand dollars?”
“Let’s just say Frank and my friend had a deal. It is Frank’s money. Frank hated banks, so I suspect he hid his money. I can’t say that I blame him. Bankers are pigs.”
“How did Frank Amoia get his hands on two hundred thousand dollars from your friend without Mrs. Amoia knowing?”
“Let’s just say my friend left it there without her knowledge.”
“I don’t understand. What makes you think I can help you?”
“I heard you’re meeting with Mary to discuss Frank’s case. I need you to convince her to let my friend collect his money. She doesn’t need to know why.”
“How can you be sure the murderer didn’t steal your friend’s money?”
“Moretti, two years have passed. Don’t think I haven’t made inquiries. Trust me, I know the money is still in the bakery. I put Sal, my best guy, on it. Sal met with a person of interest familiar with the money and was satisfied no one had stolen it. It’s hidden somewhere in the bakery.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Moretti, I’d hate to see what my friend would do if he doesn’t get his property back. You feel me?”
“Why don’t you ask your friend to call the sheriff and ask for his money? And I’m sure the Feds would be thrilled to discuss tax planning.”
“Moretti, I’m done being nice. I want my fucking money!”
“You mean your friend’s money. I can’t help you. You need to talk to Mary.”
“Look, I was Frank’s friend. Mary didn’t like me coming around. Considering how much I gave back to my community, I’m not sure why.”
“Mother Teresa would be proud of you.”
“Fuck off. Look, what can we do to resolve our problem?”
“Don’t make your problem mine. Listen to me. You know I don’t take kindly to anyone’s threats, including yours. If anything happens to Mrs. Amoia, Joey, or Valerie Fleming, I’m coming after you. That includes getting struck by lightning if you get my drift. Sonny, I guarantee should you have any interest in sex for the remainder of your life, you will be on the receiving end. You feel me?”
“Look, Frank is my son’s godfather. Mary suffered enough misery dealing with his murder. I’d rather not involve her.”
“Sonny, wait for the murder case to play itself out. There is no reason both Mary Amoia and you can’t get everything you want. Look, Sonny, you said you knew my grandfather and trusted him. He once told me, ‘If you do a favor for someone, one day they’ll do the same for you.’”
“I understand. You won’t hear from me again. How’s that for a favor?”
“I always said my grandfather was an intelligent man. I’m late for a date with a lovely woman who, believe it or not, is legal, so this meeting is over. By the way, keep your messenger boy, Paul Revere, away from me. There are enough people in my life telling me the sky will fall if things don’t go their way.”
“Moretti, enjoy your evening with your lady friend. I can’t imagine she’ll be as much fun as my girl.” Sonny looked over at the bar and called out, “Cinnamon, honey, my friend and I are done with business. Get your things, we have a busy night ahead.”
It was a sizable crowd for a Monday night at the Club Blue Note. The band playing in the background had decided it was time for one of their countless breaks.
Rusty, the barrel-chested bartender, was leaning against the bar, talking to an attractive young woman in a black dress with a ruffled neckline and short red hair, cut in the current style. She was on the band side of the bar, swirling a red plastic swizzle stick to release the bubbles in her champagne glass.
The woman tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the bar counter, her foot tapping impatiently against the stool’s metal leg. She glanced at her watch for what felt like the hundredth time, her brows furrowing in frustration. “I can’t believe he’s making me wait like this,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes scanning the crowded nightclub for any sign of her late date.
Rusty asked, “What name do you go by?”
“Kate,” she answered.
Rusty says, “Kate, let me get you another glass of champagne. Moretti will be here soon.”
“How did you know I am waiting on Blake?”
“When you bartend here for as long as I have, it’s my business to know. Don’t look now. Guess who just walked in?”
“Blake.” A smile appeared on her face. Kate embraced him, kissing his lips while rubbing his back.
Blake whispered in Kate’s ear, “You look like a million bucks.”
“Good evening, Rusty,” greeting his confidant. “I’ll have my usual, make it a double. Kate don’t move. I need to make a quick phone call. I promise I’ll be right back.”
“No worries. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Ralph, this is Moretti. Listen, I just left a meeting with your buddy, Sonny Calo. Have you located Joey Fleming yet?”
“Calo is no friend of mine. Guess what? I’m sitting in my car, watching this ramshackle of a house, on the east side of town. Guess who showed up and knocked on the door? Joey Fleming and there is a woman letting him in.”
“Where are you?”
“Seven Spring Street. Most of the houses don’t have numbers on them, but you can’t miss this one. It’s the shabby deserted looking blue dump with the termite-infested front porch. I’m parked two doors down on the opposite side of the street. If you get here soon, you can ask him all the questions your little heart desires.”
“Wait for me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Kate’s barstool was abandoned when Blake returned.
“Don’t ask me,” Rusty said. “Your lady friend left.”
“Did she say anything? I told her I’d be back. Why did she leave?”
“Seriously! She said something about turning into a pumpkin if she didn’t make it home before midnight. She said to tell you she hopes you have a good life and don’t call her again.”
“Really.”
“Moretti, I swear, you could fuck up a wet dream. Just think about it. This gorgeous, charming woman accepts your invitation for cocktails. Then you show up late, do some bullshit meet and greet, leave her stranded at the bar, wander off, and spend the rest of your time in a phone booth calling who knows who. What did you expect her to do? Why should she hang around waiting for you when she can have any guy she wants?”
“You’re right, Rusty. I’m such a schmuck.”
“Your problem is all you care about is your work. It’s admirable that you care about everyone else’s problems. You need to take time for yourself. Keep it up; one day, you’ll wake up, and except for your cat, there won’t be anyone around. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
“Thanks for the Sigmund Freud advice.” Blake emptied his glass, tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, and left. It was time to catch the killer.
Chapter 14
Do I Look Like
A Murderer
March 25, 1987, Wednesday Later that night
Blake had just raised his fist to knock on the door when a squirrely-looking young man with long stringy hair and tattoos up and down his arms opened it. While Blake made his introductions, he detected Joey’s name tattooed on the fingers. Luckily for Joey, the letters in his name matched the four fingers on his right hand.
“Let me guess, you’re Joey Fleming?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Oh, just a lucky guess.”
“Mr. Moretti, it’s so wonderful to meet you. I’ve seen you on TV. You have a great reputation as a trial lawyer.”
Blake pretended he didn’t hear the accolade and said, “Ralph and I have a few questions. Is this a good time?”
“Sir, any time late in the day is fine with me. Early mornings are the only time that’s a problem.”
“Is it because of your work schedule?”
“No, sir. I don’t work. I party all night and sleep in.”
“Well, it’s late, so I presume this is as good a time as any?”
“Absolutely. Shoot.”
“I have a few questions for you, but first, I must know if you are sober.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sober. I just got home from Bobby Kool’s Pool Hall. I play pool for money and take the game seriously. I would never drink alcohol or take pills before I shoot pool. Afterward, well, that’s a different story. I’m up all night partying. I just got home, and the next thing I know, you all are knocking on my door before I can do any serious drinking.”
“Great. Then you won’t mind if we come in and chat?”
“Sir, no problem. Make yourselves at home and ask away.”
“We have to ask you some questions about Frank Amoia.”
“That’s strange you want to ask me questions about Mr. Amoia.”
“Why is that?”
“Recently, everyone has been asking me about Mr. Amoia. Fire away.”
“Besides Detective Massey, who else asked you about Mr. Amoia.”
“Last week around 9:30 p.m., a mobster-type looking guy and his two goons wearing expensive-looking suits and sunglasses visited me. They asked me about Mr. Amoia and whether I knew he hid money in the bakery. I know people are spreading rumors that I robbed Mr. Amoia and knocked him off for his money.”
“Well, did you?” Ralph asked.
“Do I look like a murderer?”
“Don’t ask.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told those goons. I never killed anyone, and I certainly didn’t kill Mr. Amoia. I’m not like that psycho Owens. He’d kill his own mother for a dollar and enjoy every dying minute.”
“At first, I lied and told them I didn’t know what they were talking about. Then the fat guy pulled a meat cleaver from inside his topcoat and told me he’d see to it that I would never be able to dial my rotary phone if I didn’t tell him the truth.
“When I asked him what he meant, he said he’d cut off my fingers one at a time until I talked.”
“That’s fucking crazy,” responded Ralph.
