Whiskey and Tonic, page 22
The two Canine Control officers emerged from Providence with Romeo and Juliet on leads; the men had removed their protective face masks. Tails wagging, the pit bulls heeled all the way to the back of the van where they waited obediently for the doors to open.
Chapter forty-four
More than an hour had passed since Officers Swancott and Roscoe ushered me out of Providence into breathable air. The canine cop was called back to duty indoors while the human cop and I waited in the north-facing courtyard for Jenx to either arrest or dismiss me. I still owed Wells a yea or nay on his dinner invitation. Since I didn’t yet know whether I’d be heading home or to the slammer, I turned off my cell phone.
By now Brady and I had run out of small talk. Or at least the kind of small talk I liked. I wanted details about the case; he claimed he couldn’t give me any. I’d been sent here because the police wanted to know what was up and didn’t have the manpower to find out. Ergo, I was as involved as Brady . . . just not as legitimately. Not legitimately, at all, according to the other law enforcement agencies on site. Both the sheriff’s office and the state police were troubled by my B&E.
Brady confided that it would have been better for me to flee the scene before the cops arrived. I explained that I would have happily done so if only Romeo and Juliet had been willing to bid me adieu. Jenx was trying to tap dance our way out of this quagmire.
I closed my eyes and focused on cheerful thoughts. Thoughts that didn’t include hiring a high-priced attorney to defend me against criminal charges.
Suddenly the French doors opened, and Jenx said, “Whiskey, you’re free to go.”
She looked exhausted, leading me to conclude that the State and County boys had given her a rough time. But when I saw the other guys, I revised my opinion. Either Jenx had argued them into a stupor, or they were taking an off-the-record siesta on the nice leather furniture in the family room. Eyes half-closed, bodies slack, they slumped in armchairs and on sofas. Then I noticed something else: the wall art and lamp shades were askew, and the area rugs were rumpled. Even the brass chandelier hung cock-eyed. Tell-tale signs of Jenx’s energy run amok. The chief was inclined to disrupt geomagnetic fields if someone questioned her authority. Let alone her integrity.
I issued a collective thanks to the assembled law men. Nobody stirred. Curious though I was about the cause of Dr. LePadanni’s death, even I could guess that this was not the time to ask.
I was outside already, striding toward my car, when I heard Brady behind me.
“Whiskey, wait!”
He was accompanied by Roscoe, who weaved and staggered as if drugged.
“What happened to him?” I gasped.
“Same thing that happened to the other officers."
“Jenx’s magnetism?" I’d forgotten that Roscoe was in there, too.
Brady nodded. “He took a direct hit. Poor guy. When Jenx gets riled, look out."
We watched Roscoe stumble around in a circle and then land on his side, panting. Most of the gawkers had gone. Roscoe’s “disorder” alarmed the few who remained; when he fell over, they retreated to the other side of the street.
“Between the books and my online research, plus what I saw in Fenton Flagg’s notes, I’ve reached an astounding conclusion,” Brady announced. “There are living Schuyler heirs."
“I thought the family tree ended with Mrs. Schuyler’s nephew. . . .”
“Let’s put it this way: Mrs. Schuyler’s generation was the last to procreate—legitimately."
“Are you saying the nephew had a bastard?” I asked.
“No. I’m saying Miss Blossom did."
I stared. “Mar Schuyler had a baby? With who?"
“I’m still putting the pieces together. But the case we’re working on now looks like the latest chapter in a long sick story of revenge.”
“Starting with the original Miss Blossom?” I asked.
Brady nodded. “If I’m right, Mar Schuyler did what young girls often do: she loved a wild boy, she got pregnant, and she got sent away. The wrinkle was that her mom was nuts. Rich and nuts. A nasty combination. Mom never stopped meddling.”
“How?”
“According to the original Winimar book, the first Miss Blossom missed the crowning of the second Miss Blossom because she had consumption. Nobody had seen Mar Schuyler in months; word was she’d been sent to a private hospital. Mom attended the second annual coronation in her daughter’s place and led the crowd in a prayer for Mar’s recovery. Then she tearfully donated the custom-made emerald tiara to the village of Magnet Springs. That was in April 1848. In July, Mar died at home. Not from consumption, as you know. She was murdered. Mom fingered one of the Italian tradesmen who’d helped build Winimar. She claimed he was obsessed with Mar and often ‘leered’ at her. There were no signs of a break-in. Mom insisted the Italian knew how to sneak into the house. Thanks to Mrs. Schuyler’s prodigious grief, money, and social connections, the accused was swiftly tried and executed."
I said, “Does the first Winimar book state that Mar had a baby?”
“No. The second one does. According to Murray McCready—a.k.a., Fenton Flagg—Mar confided her pregnancy in one of the maidservants, who was then fired for knowing too much. The maid claimed she would have kept quiet. But after losing her job, she was P.O.’d enough to spread the word before she left town. Mrs. Schuyler promptly countered with the consumption story. And here’s where Reactional Analysis comes into play: Everybody who was anybody in Magnet Springs chose to believe that Miss Blossom had consumption because they were told to believe it by Mrs. Schuyler, who had way more influence than an Irish maid.”
“What happened to Mar’s baby?”
“I can’t be sure I got it right till I talk to Flagg in person."
“Oh, come on! Who are the Schuyler heirs?”
“Sorry. I need to see Flagg first."
“Why? Do we know the Schuyler heirs?"
I was fishing, but Brady wouldn’t take the bait. So I tried a new question: “Who was hanged for Mar’s murder? If it’s in the books, you know I’m going to read it, anyway.”
Brady sighed. “His name . . . was Antonio Paladino."
Chapter forty-five
I stared at Brady. “Paladino? As in—?”
“Yeah. Believe it or not, Dock’s real name is Anthony.”
“Are you saying Dock Paladino is the last surviving Schuyler heir?!”
“I’m not saying that!" Brady looked uncharacteristically stern.
“Okay. . . ." I was willing to backpedal, a little. “Are you saying we should go have a chat with Dock’s great uncle, the sausage vendor?”
“That we should do,” Brady agreed. “If Jenx says we can.”
He went back inside to check, leaving me and Roscoe in the driveway. We were both disoriented but for different reasons. I assumed that the metal tags on the canine officer’s collar had made him extra vulnerable to Jenx’s geo-magnetic fit. He seemed more alert now, but still cautious about getting back up on all fours. My mind was reeling at the notion that Dock Paladino might be connected to both the curse and the cash of Winimar.
Brady re-emerged, pointing toward his cruiser. “Want to ride with me?”
I declined, preferring to follow in my own vehicle rather than return to Providence to pick it up later. This place was as creepy as Winimar.
Because I’d sent a floral apology after Abra knocked him down, I already knew that Vito Botafogo lived in the two-block zone of Magnet Springs called Little Italy. It should have been called Itty-Bitty Italy. Just north of downtown, but not far enough to count as the true North Side, Little Italy consisted of a dozen tiny houses built close to the street, one rundown post-World War II apartment building, the only Catholic church in our zip code and two small but excellent restaurants. One specialized in northern Italian cucina, the other in southern. I preferred the northern place myself. You can’t go wrong when a meal starts with a good Chianti and all the crostini you can eat.
Thinking about food reminded me that I still owed Wells a reply to his dinner invitation. Since it was already after five and I had police business to conduct, I decided to request a rain date. I reached the judge on his cell phone as I drove south out of Pasco Point, right behind Brady’s patrol car.
Wells’s disappointment was audible; it stirred a strange blend of feelings in me, starting with guilt—since I had lied yet again about what I was up to—and ending with lust. Yes, lust. When Wells lowered his voice to say that he’d see me for dinner tomorrow, he actually sounded . . . sexy. I wanted some of that. Apparently, Odette’s lingerie strategy was having the desired effect. I offered to bring wine, but Wells had a different idea: “Just show up wearing that camisole."
As we cruised into town, Brady buzzed me. “We’ll approach from the alley behind Vito’s house.”
“Why? There’s plenty of on-street parking."
“We’re not doing a property appraisal, Whiskey. If somebody’s up to something at Vito’s, we want to catch them in the act.”
“The act of what? What do you think’s going on?"
“Could be anything. Follow my lead."
I had been mentally prepared for nothing more strenuous than decoding Vito’s thick accent. Now another rush of adrenaline coursed through my system. How much of that hormone could I have left?
Passing Christopher Street, I glanced longingly at the Toscana Ristorante. What I wouldn’t have given for a glass of red wine.
Behind Brady, I made a right turn in to the alley. Dead ahead of us, about halfway down the passage, loomed a gleaming black tank.
I buzzed Brady. “Sweeney’s Hummer!”
“Yeah,” he replied. “And there might be a vehicle on the other side of it that we can’t see from here.”
“Dock’s truck?” I guessed. “Or Tammi’s SUV?”
Brady said, “Back out of the alley, turn your car around, and then back it in behind mine. We need to be able to fly out of here if things get complicated.”
Things were already complicated. I followed his simple step-by-step directions, grateful not to have to think too much. Brady and I disembarked at the same time.
“Shit!” he said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I stepped in shit!”
He checked the bottom of his shoe. Then our eyes met.
“Look familiar?” he asked. I understood the question.
“It could be hers. I don’t know what she’s been eating since Saturday. . . ."
Brady nodded, deftly sidestepping the remaining pile to wipe his foot on a discarded brick. He pointed to the little white house nearest the Hummer.
“That’s Vito’s.”
The smell of Italian sausage was a sure clue; it grew stronger with each approaching step. I wondered if Vito cooked the stuff all the time, or if he had cooked it for so long that the alley was permanently scented.
There was another black vehicle on the far side of the Hummer. In fact, there were two: a Dodge Ram truck and a Lincoln Navigator, presumably Dock Paladino’s and Tammi LePadanni’s. But who had driven Sweeney’s Hummer? Or, put another way, who else was here besides Tammi and Dock and—
if we’d read the shit right—my dog? I was pretty sure Abra couldn’t drive.
Brady reached for his service revolver.
“Are you planning to use that?!" I whispered.
“God, no,” he replied. “I was just checking to see if I brought it. It makes me look older."
The urgent bark of a dog split the air. I spun around, and there she was, loping toward us, her blonde tresses bouncing.
Then everything happened at once: a shot rang out; a woman screamed; a door slammed; a man shouted a long stream of words I couldn’t decipher.
I knew that couldn’t have been Brady’s gun going off since he didn’t intend to use it. And that couldn’t have been me screaming or slamming the door because I hadn’t moved. I was still staring slack-jawed at Abra, who kept on coming despite the noise.
“Get down!” Brady shouted.
Now I moved, flattening myself against the ground near the Hummer. Abra sailed past on the other side as a second gunshot sounded, accompanied by shattering glass.
I imagined the bullet piercing Abra. Then someone screamed. That time it was me.
“It’s all right,” Brady said. “Just stay down.”
He had his weapon in hand.
“Do you even know how to use that thing?”
His response was vaguer than I would have preferred: “I’ve been to the firing range."
He instructed me to call Jenx on my cell phone. “Tell her to send back-up. Now.”
That should have been easy, but my shaky finger mis-dialed speed-dial. Twice. When Jenx answered, I panted, “We’re in the alley behind Vito’s on Christopher Street, and somebody’s shooting at us—or maybe at Abra! She’s here, too. So’s Sweeney’s Hummer and Dock’s truck and Tammi’s SUV!”
Calmly the chief told me to remain on the line and keep breathing. I watched Brady inch along the length of the Hummer, poised to spray bullets.
“Hello!” he shouted toward the back of Vito’s house. His voice sounded two octaves deeper than usual. “This is Officer Swancott of the Magnet Springs police. Come out with your hands up!”
I wondered if he said that because he’d been trained to, or because he’d seen cops do it on TV. No way I believed it would work.
Then a man called out, “How do we know you won’t shoot us?"
Before Brady could answer, there was yet another scream, this one from inside the house. I heard Tammi shout, “Who let her in? Down! Get down, you goddam bimbo!"
Chapter forty-six
The back door of Vito’s house swung open, and a man who had to be Dock Paladino stumbled out.
I guessed he was Dock for three reasons: (1) he looked exactly like Jenx had described him—big, beefy and dark, the opposite of Brad Pitt; (2) he was, after all, related to Vito; and (3) he was followed by Tammi and Brandi LePadanni, who were followed by Abra.
Nobody in that oversexed group was thinking about doing the dirty. Dock clutched his left shoulder, which was bleeding; Brandi cringed in terror as Abra—in rare Attack Dog Mode—lunged and snapped at her; and Tammi looked just plain pissed off.
“Uncle Vito ain’t coming out,” Dock informed Brady. “He won’t even put down the damn gun. Got me once already, and he says he’s not done till I’m dead. The old coot can’t see worth shit, but he still shoots."
“Can somebody? Get this dog? Away from me?” whimpered Brandi LePadanni.
Her face free of make-up and streaked with tears, she was still stunning. More stunning than usual, perhaps, because she seemed vulnerable. I couldn’t help but admire the thick raven hair tumbling over her shoulders, her full lips and flawless bone structure. Brandi LePadanni looked for all the world like a Hollywood starlet trying vainly to blend with the rest of us. She never would.
When I missed my cue, Brandi shrieked, “Help me? Whiskey? You stupid bitch?”
Okay, so she was gorgeous and awful. Which did nothing to motivate me. I figured my dog wouldn’t listen, anyhow. Then Officer Swancott whistled sharply. In mid-lunge, Abra veered away from the beauty and flew to Brady’s side, where she lay down.
“How? Did you?” I began, sounding like You-Know-Who.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Brady said. “Abra and Roscoe trained together."
“Yes, but I thought Abra was the example of what not to do."
“I ain’t-uh coming out-uh or putting down-uh the gun-uh until you put that bad-uh boy in hand-uh-cuff-uhs!"
A stooped old man stood on the other side of the screen door, waving a handgun like a surrender flag. When Brady didn’t immediately move, Tammi snapped into action.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’ll do it,” she muttered and whipped a pair of handcuffs out of a jacket pocket.
“Freeze!” Brady boomed. “Drop the cuffs!”
Tammi sighed elaborately and let them hit the ground. Training his weapon on her, Brady scooped up the cuffs and tossed them to me. Hardly standard issue, these were lined with faux fur and pink lace. Ugh.
When Brady clicked real cuffs in place on Dock’s wrists, I observed that Paladino’s shoulder was leaking only a thin trickle of blood. Not enough to make even me feel faint. Sirens howled as police cruisers poured in at both ends of the alley, effectively trapping us all.
Vito hobbled into the alley, his empty hands up. Covering her flawless face, Brandi sobbed. Tammi stamped her foot and demanded to know how long this was going to take.
“I’ve got real estate clients to see!”
“Not anymore,” I said loudly enough to cut through the sirens.
Deputy Clifton was one of two sheriff’s men on the scene. Although his head was bandaged, he’d insisted on getting right back to work.
“I was glad to take this call,” he said. “One of these folks probably cracked my skull."
“And worse,” Jenx remarked ominously. “Much worse.”
I turned to her. “Do you know something I don’t know?”
“Always, Whiskey. Don’t get me started.”
Brady took Dock to the police station in his car; Jenx took Vito in hers. Clifton and the other sheriff’s deputy were assigned to deliver the LePadanni ladies.
With Abra riding shotgun, I followed the four marked cars. Whimpering and wagging all the way, my diva dog couldn’t wait to flirt with Canine Officer Roscoe. Reserved though he was, he always let her sniff his ass. I was pumped up, too. Tammi appeared to be in deep doo-doo, and she was one of my agents. Between her, Abra, and Faye, I had too many connections to hang back now. No way I was going home till I had some answers. Or till somebody in uniform made me go home.
Once at the station I hoped to slip into the Interrogation Room, which doubles as a supply closet. Since there were four suspects, almost every room at the station was put to use, including the kitchenette and both holding cells. And I was barred from the proceedings. That didn’t discourage me, however. I was willing to wait for results.
