Snowjob (26 page)

“I lied. I’ll mention it next time I go to confession.”

Manatelli grinned at me. “You’re a good Catholic boy. I like that.” Then the grin dropped away as he went on, “I give the word an’ you don’t make it to confession. You’re dead.”

“Like Cindy Laver? like Grant? Like Wendy Tate?”

He spread his arms. “I don’t know anybody with those names.”

“So what’s your proposition? Or did you come out here to get some fresh air?”

“Tough,” he said softly. “Always tough guys. Listen, tough guy. I’m a reasonable man. I see a problem, I fix it. You’re too tough to be threatened? Fine. I deal with you another way. What’s your price?”

“My price is simple. But it’s not money. I want Doug Ford cleared. That too high for you?”

Manatelli grinned again. It didn’t look any warmer this time.” What’s he charged with?”

“Just to refresh your memory, Murder One, plus theft of fifty grand.”

“Go on back to his place and wait,” he said. “It’s going to be all right. I have connections. Unnerstand?”

“As soon as he’s clear, I’m gone. And the talk about your money-laundering goes with me. Everything’s sweet.”

That made him narrow his eyes. “Go and wait,” he said.

“I’ll wait one day.”

The bodyguard made a growling sound and his coat crunched up as he raised the gun he had in his pocket.

I figured he was the guy who’d cost me a new tire so I sneered at him. “Nice coat. Get the tailor to cut more slack in the next one, or get yourself a smaller gun. The size of your dick would be fine.”

His chin dropped and he opened his mouth to reply but Manatelli looked at him and they both just stood there as I walked away and put Sam into my car.

Doug’s next-door neighbor was chipping ice off the sidewalk when I drove in and we exchanged waves as I got out of the car. I went in and found Doug in the basement, cutting a board on a table saw. He switched the saw off and took off his goggles when I came down. “What’d our boy say?”

“Not a lot, but I had a talk with Manatelli.”

Doug stood and listened while I filled him in and then said, “How’s he gonna handle that, get me off the charges? D’hesay?”

“No. Maybe he just wants me out of his hair while he pulls some stunt. Like maybe he’s moving his money from the bank to Barbados or some place. But that won’t stop me going on with the investigation if he hasn’t cleared you.”

“He’s a snake,” Doug said. “I don’t see how he can get the charges wiped unless he’s got clout with the chief. An’ that don’t wash. The chief’s honest.”

“So, we’ll wait,” I said. “Maybe he’s planning to pull some stunt but we’re armed. We’re in the house. He knows he can’t get at us. And tomorrow, I’m back on his case.”

“Well, okay,” Doug said. “If you wanna go by what he said, well, what can I say?”

So we spent the afternoon working together on the bookshelf for Angie’s room. Doug cut and I sanded and it r came out looking like something from a store. At six o’clock we knocked off for a drink before supper and Doug flipped the TV on for the news.

The usual election stories and foreign wars dominated the national news. Then the local anchor came on and made an announcement that stopped us cold.

“Another violent death has rocked the quiet skiing town of Chambers today.” The camera showed a car on a quiet road with police cars around it, doors open, Cassidy and Schmidt and some uniformed men conferring. “An out-of-town visitor, a man who police claim is active in an organized crime family in New Jersey, was found shot to death in this rented car. A gun was found beside him and there are reports that he left a suicide note. Few details yet but we will bring you up to date as we learn more.”

Doug turned to me wide-eyed. “That’s Manatelli they’re talkin’ about. Did you kill the sonofabitch?”

FIFTEEN

I looked at him in disbelief, and he said, “Sorry, Reid. But this whole thing is unbelievable. Guys like Manatelli don’t blow themselves away.”

“I didn’t kill him but somebody else did. I spoke to him before I came back here. He was fat and sassy then. He wasn’t planning suicide.”

Doug stood up, pacing up and down in front of the TV which was still playing the shot of the crime scene. He reached out absently and switched it off. “Okay. I’m sorry. But who did it?”

“Maybe his bodyguard did. Maybe he was Mucci’s man after all and killed him on Mucci’s say-so.”

“That’s the best guess,” Doug said, looking at me but not seeing me, his eyes turned inward on his thoughts. “If the bodyguard’d been doin’ his job he’d’ve stopped the guy who pulled the trigger.” He stood and considered that for a moment. “But think a minute. If it was a mob killing there wouldn’t have been any suicide note.” He thrust his arms out. “You know their pattern. They like their message to be loud an’ clear.”

“Maybe they had a reason for cleaning things up down here. Maybe they’re not through with Chambers yet. They want some time and they bought it the best way they could.”

Doug sat down, crossing his legs tightly, rubbing his chin. He was tied up tighter than I’d ever seen him, even when things were bad in Nam. When he spoke I knew he hadn’t been listening to me.

“I wanted the guy wiped out,” he said softly. “You heard me say it. But now it’s happened I feel like shit. He insulted Melody, sure. An’ me an’ every brother in the world. But you don’t shoot guys for that.”

“This isn’t your fault.”

He waved me off. “I didn’t pull the trigger but it’s all down to me.”

“You didn’t kill him. You suspected he was involved in a crime, you checked it out. You’re a cop. It’s your job.”

He didn’t answer and I could see he needed some space so I said, “I’ll put some coffee on.”

It’s true. Watched pots never boil. I stayed in the kitchen for what seemed like an hour until the coffee was ready. Then I heard the doorbell ring. Doug answered it. “Well, hi, Captain.”

“Can I come in, Doug? Schmidt was polite but his tone was formal. But not to where he sounded as if he was here to rearrest Doug. I put another couple of mugs on a tray with the coffee and took them through. Schmidt and Cassidy were coming in, keeping their hats on. This was business. “You heard about the mob guy?” Schmidt asked Doug, ignoring me.

“I heard about a killing, the TV didn’t say who it was,” Doug said carefully.

“Yeah. Well. Was a guy called Manatelli. The chief said you saw him in town here, figured he was pulling something.”

“That’s right,” Doug said. “Manatelli’s a honcho in the Mucci family.”

“Right now he’s so much pork.” Schmidt waved one hand. “Ate his gun in his car. Left a note.”

“That’s what the TV said.”

Schmidt looked at me as I set down the coffee. “You been here all day?”

“Most of it. Since around one. Why?”

“Can you prove that?”

“Why do I have to prove things, Captain?”

“Because I don’t believe in Santa Claus,” Schmidt snarled. “Answer me.”

“I came in around one, like I said. The guy next door was clearing his walk. I spoke to him. Haven’t been out since.”

Schmidt looked at Cassidy who nodded and left without speaking.

“You said he left a note, Captain,” Doug said softly. “What did it say, or is that confidential?”

“It’s a fake, it what it is,” Schmidt said. He looked at the coffee tray. I poured three mugs and handed one to him, one to Doug.

Doug said, “Thanks. What makes you say it’s a fake, Captain?”

Schmidt sipped his coffee. “It was written on the back of an envelope. Now if the envelope had been addressed to Mr. Manatelli, at the guy’s home address, fine, that mates it look promising. But this was one o’ those junk mail envelopes. Lite, congratulations, you may have won a million bucks.” He shook his head angrily. “Who the hell takes an envelope like that along with him in his car to the lookout on top of Mount Reach, then writes a note on it—just the envelope, not the stuff that was inside—an’ sticks his gun in his mouth?”

“Sure sounds phony. What’d it say?”

Schmidt set down his cup. “It said, and I quote, ‘I can’t face it. I killed three people and framed the nigger cop with the money. But my boss wants the other fifty K. He’ll kill me a worse way than this.’”

“Any idea who his boss is?” Doug asked carefully. “Is it MuchoMucci?”

“We’re checkin’. But the main thing is, you’re clear.”

“Clear?” Doug stood up, setting down his coffee cup very gently as if it were a primed Claymore mine. “You mean all this is over?”

“Yeah,” Schmidt said. “The chief salt me to tell you. Like the only thing I had to do was see that you didn’t have any part of this. Where have you been all day?”

“Right here, in the basement. Making a bookcase for my daughter. Wanna see?”

“Naah. The body was found around four. It was still warm. There were tire tracks of another car on the lookout. He was killed three o’clock, thereabouts. And if s been snowing all afternoon. I just checked, there’s no track outside your place so I know Reid here is on the level when he said he was back at one. But we had to establish that.” He waved his hands, a “what can a guy do” gesture. “Then I have ta take you to see the chief for the press conference.”

“Press conference?” Doug was startled. “What in hell’s that all about?”

Schmidt covered his embarrassment with a show of cop bonhomie. “Well, in case you haven’t checked in the mirror today, you’re still a different color from the rest of the department an’ the chief felt bad about arresting you. Now he wants to put it right. I hope that sits okay with you, Doug.”

“I understand,” Doug said. I could see how angry he was but Schmidt didn’t know him as well as I did.

“Yeah. Well. I wan’ed to say I never liked the charge and this is a happy day for me. For the whole department. I hope you ain’ gonna hold it against us, what happened.”

“No,” Doug said. “I’m sorry about the people who’ve been killed. Always will be. But I’ve got no beef with what happened to me.”

His voice was toneless but Schmidt’s relief was obvious. He stood up and very tentatively stuck out his hand. Doug shook and Schmidt clasped his wrist with his other hand. “Thanks, Doug. You’re a good detective an’ a nice guy. Maybe I can buy you and Reid a drink after.”

“That would be very nice, Captain. Thank you. I’ll tidy up and come on in,” Doug said.

“Great.” Schmidt let go of Doug’s hand and nodded, smiling his bull terrier smile. “I thank you for your professionalism and I’ll tell the chief you’ll be there, when? ’Bout an hour be okay?”

“That’s fine,” Doug said. “I’ll be there, in my best suit for the gentlemen of the press,”

“Great,” Schmidt said again, then, like a good little guest, “Thanks for the coffee. That a Marine recipe?”

“No saltpeter,” I said to break the tension and we all chuckled and he went out.

Doug closed the door and came back to his seat. “They’re grabbin’ at fresh air,” he said. “That note’s phony as a three-dollar bill. Schmidt knows it, we all know it. They’re just using it to clean up three homicides. Four, if you count Manatelli.”

“This isn’t the Kennedy assassination,” I said. “Quit looking for a conspiracy. Manatelli’s gone. Your family’s safe, the town of Chambers is back to normal and you’re golden.”

That finally made him laugh. “Shit. How’d you ever pass the physical? You’re blind, man. I ain’ never gonna be golden.”

I laughed with him, glad of his relief. “Go change and I’ll drive you down there.”

“Golden?” he said and laughed again. He shook his head and went upstairs.

He came down dressed as if he was going to a wedding. Neat suit, white on white shirt and a blue and red tie. I gave him a thumbs up and he laughed. “Kinda wish I had a red hat an’ python boots like a pimp. See what the brass would feel about paradin’ me out in that.”

“It’s all over,” I said. “Why don’t you call Melody and talk to her, then I’ll drive you over. You can sit in the back if you like and I’ll open the door for the cameras.”

“Get outa here.” He waved at me and I left him to telephone while I went and washed up.

When I got back downstairs he was sitting waiting for me. “Melody says to give you her love an’ thanks,” he said.

“How are they all?”

“Glad to be coming home. I spoke to the kids and everyone’s fat an’ happy.” He smiled. “It’s over, Reid.”

“I know. Now let’s get downtown and let the world know.”

The press conference was held in the front office. The chief and Captain Schmidt were center stage with Doug, and Cassidy and Beeman, the uniformed guy on the desk, were beaming in the background, trying to get their pictures on TV. The chief described the suicide and read out Manatelli’s note while the cameras rolled. And then everybody shook hands with Doug and he started to talk. He exonerated the department for arresting him. They had acted on the evidence, he said. It was a reminder to all of them of how hard it is to be sure of a case on the evidence.

I saw Schmidt shuffle his feet a little there and figured he was thinking about the phony suicide note but he said nothing.