Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery Page 8

  “You already said it—she’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for her.”

  Coop shook her head as she walked away. “Goodnight, Cybil. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  Coop smiled at everyone as she left, though it took every ounce of will power. What she wanted to do was smack Cybil in the face.

  No way I’m taking shit from that bitch. Not anymore.

  CHAPTER 16

  SUBTERFUGE

  Houston, Texas

  Cybil shuffled around the kitchen still dressed in her robe and slippers. She brewed more coffee while she finished giving Rusty his instructions for the day.

  “Talk to as few people as possible and make sure that none of them are reporters. The papers have already made sure we look like fools.”

  She rinsed her cup, dried it, and tore open the top of a packet of sweetener. “And whatever you do, stay out of the strip clubs. They’ll be watching you.”

  Rusty didn’t even deny it, just nodded his head and took the admonishments as if he were a schoolboy being reprimanded by the teacher.

  Cybil tapped a long fingernail on the countertop as the coffee dripped, and all the while she shook her head. “I can’t believe Tom did that to us,” she said, then slammed a frying pan on the counter. “The least he could have done was give us more notice.”

  Rusty got up and rubbed her shoulders. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  She shook her shoulders and moved away to get Rusty to stop. “Don’t worry? You can’t announce that the president will be at a party, then have him not show. And that fake excuse he gave for not coming down…”

  Rusty turned her toward him. “For your own sake, girl, give it up. It’s done with. Like my daddy used to say—once the chicken’s dead you might as well eat it.”

  She shot Rusty a nasty look, snatched the coffee pot from the burner and poured herself another cup. “You worry about your business and I’ll worry about the rest. You got that, boy?”

  Rusty grabbed his hat—a Stetson—like any real Texan would wear—and headed for the door. “You know where to reach me.”

  I know all right. You’ll probably be fucking a chicken.

  After Rusty left, Cybil sat alone at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper, including the latest news on the ‘dumpster murder’ as they were calling it, and eating the last of a piece of cantaloupe. When the home phone rang, she grabbed it with a vengeance, but then calmed and spoke in her sweet morning voice. “Good morning, this is Cybil.”

  “This is RB.”

  She sat straight up. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  “I wanted to apologize about Tom. He isn’t normally—”

  Cybil stood and paced the kitchen. “Did you know about this?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Right. I’m sure you didn’t.”

  Cybil made a few noises that could have been interpreted in a half a dozen ways. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you two were in this together.”

  “I can assure you—”

  “Forget about that. We have bigger problems.”

  “What?”

  “For the life of Christ, don’t you pay attention to anything I say? Barbara is dead.” Cybil’s voice rose again, tainted with suspicion. “Did Tom do it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He hasn’t seen her in years.”

  “Now who’s being ridiculous? Besides, if it wasn’t Tom, then who?”

  “I have no idea, but you better get things under control before some kind of evidence turns up. None of us can afford to be embarrassed.”

  “Don’t worry about my end. And if you find out anything, I better be the first one to hear.”

  “You will. I swear.”

  “All right. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A LATE NIGHT CALL

  Houston, Texas

  I kicked my feet up on the desk and stared out the window. The traffic was already backed up and it wasn’t even close to rush hour. As I watched the cars inch along, I focused on how to kick-start this case. The trouble was we had nothing to go on. No fingers for prints, no witnesses, and no match from missing persons. Tip had been right about that.

  All we had were pieces of a woman’s body with no clue as to where she’d been killed, or why. The when part had been answered by the autopsy; she’d been killed sometime the night the killer dumped her.

  “Where do we go now, Tip?”

  “Maybe we’ll get something from the pictures,” Tip said.

  I turned around, shaking my head. “That’ll be a long shot.”

  “You’re right, but it’s all we’ve got right now.”

  I made a few follow-up calls to potential leads, and then we worked the rest of the day interviewing people who might have seen something at the dump sites. When it came time to go home we still had nothing but the photos and they hadn’t produced any results.

  “I’m calling it quits for the night,” I said.

  “You have a date?”

  “Yeah, me and a bottle of Chianti. We’re going to share a movie.”

  Tip lost his smile. “Calling it quits tonight is okay, but starting tomorrow, we’re on this until it’s done.”

  I headed home, took a shower and got into some comfortable shorts. After cooking pasta, I heated the last of a mushroom medley I’d cooked a few nights before, and scooped it onto a few slices of garlic bread. I took my time eating, something I’d never done in all the years I was married. And I thought about how much I missed Mary.

  Dishes only took a minute, then I retired to the sofa to watch a movie—Predator—one I could never pass up. It might go down in trivia history as the only movie to star two future governors. I was at the part where Jesse Ventura was about to get killed when the phone rang. I got up before I realized it was the home phone. Nobody had that number, so I sat back down. The alien was in the trees, camouflaged. But that phone kept ringing.

  Shit, it might be about Ron.

  I rushed to the kitchen, where I still had a phone connected to the cradle. Ancient, Ron called it. This phone was so old it didn’t even have a screen to view caller ID.

  I tried to keep the panic from my voice. “This is Gino.”

  “I saw those pictures in the paper.”

  It was a woman’s voice, but it sounded strange. A distant, hollow sound. “What pictures?”

  “The pictures of the dead woman.”

  I went from pissed and disinterested to alert, searching for something to write with. “Who is this?”

  “I don’t think who I am matters. I have a few questions, though.”

  I found a pen in the second drawer and a small notepad next to it. I pulled it out and sat at the table, writing—woman, called at 9:27. Sounds…funny.

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Do you know when she died? Exactly?”

  “Are you a reporter?” I was going to be pissed if this was some goddamn reporter trying to get a scoop.

  “How about if I ask the questions and you answer.”

  It had to be a reporter. “I’m not in the mood for games. And my house is off limits. Goodnight.” I almost hung up, but she said something just as I reached to place the phone back on the cradle.

  “Do you know she had blue eyes?”

  I yanked the phone back to my ear.

  “What?”

  “I thought that would get your attention. Yes, her eyes were blue. I’m certain that the medical examiner has told you that by now.”

  I wrote on the pad ‘knew eye color’ while

  I thought of what to say. “How do you know she had blue eyes?”

  “Ready to answer some questions now?”

  Her voice seemed…sullen, and at the same time…concerned. If she was a reporter she had good connections, if not…she had information about the murder that we needed. Which meant she was connected to it somehow.

  “What do you need to know?”

  “The
same thing I asked earlier. Do you know when she died? Exactly.”

  She said it the same way as before, with the emphasis on the word exactly. It must have been important for her to ask it twice.

  I wrote it down, then said, “I don’t know for sure.”

  She didn’t say anything so I thought I better throw out a small bone. “Not yet, I don’t. We haven’t gotten the full report from the M.E.”

  “I find that difficult to believe, Detective. Time of death is typically one of the first things determined by the medical examiner.”

  I took another note. Knows about police procedure.

  “We were more focused on the victim’s identity, but time of death is coming. I’ll have that by tomorrow. Why the questions? Did you know her?”

  “What time tomorrow do you anticipate an answer?”

  “I’m not sure. Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll call when I get it.”

  A throaty laugh answered me. “Pretty stupid, Detective. I’m disappointed more than impressed. Perhaps even insulted.”

  “Sorry. I thought—”

  “You didn’t think anything. Goodnight.”

  “No, wait!”

  The line went dead.

  I sat stunned for a minute, then dialed Tip. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Denton.”

  “It’s Gino. I just had a weird call.”

  I filled him in on the details and we brainstormed but couldn’t figure out who it might have been. He thought it could have been Samantha Roberts, the reporter. He said he’d check on that in the morning.

  “All right, I’m going to sleep. See you first thing.”

  CHAPTER 18

  WAITING FOR THE PHONE TO RING

  Houston, Texas

  I met Tip at the station, then we headed out for another day of interviews. With any luck this would be the last of them. “Did you check with Roberts?”

  “The call didn’t come from her,” Tip said. “At least that’s what she said, and I believe her.”

  “Who has my private number? It’s unlisted. You’re not supposed to be able to get a damn unlisted number.” I kept one hand on the wheel but turned some to look at Tip. “And remember, the caller knew the victim had blue eyes. She knew.”

  “How the fuck did she know that? You sure you didn’t let it slip?”

  “Of course I didn’t let it slip. I thought she was a reporter, and I was about to hang up when she sprung that on me.”

  “What did she want?”

  “We went through this last night. She wanted to know TOD—exactly. It meant something to her.”

  “And you have no idea who this was?”

  “Not a fucking clue.”

  What did caller ID say?”

  “Unknown. I don’t mean it said ‘unknown’. I meant I don’t have a phone that reads caller ID.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tip said. Then he calmed down. “Probably doesn’t matter. I doubt if we’d have seen who was calling anyway.”

  Tip stared out the side window for a moment. “You sure it wasn’t a reporter?”

  “I thought she was at first but…I don’t know. The more I talked to her, the more I realized she didn’t sound like a reporter. Something about her voice…” I thought some more on it, then made up my mind.

  “No, I’m convinced. But somebody gave her information on the case, or she knew the victim. One or the other.”

  “Maybe she’ll call back. If she doesn’t, we’ll get the phone company involved.”

  “It could just be some wacko who got lucky with the blue-eyes guess.”

  Tip laughed. “My ass.”

  We finished up the day, once again with no progress. On most murders if leads didn’t come to fruition in the first couple of days the case started going stale. We couldn’t afford to let that happen. Coop was already on our ass about finding this killer, and I’m sure the chief was on hers and the mayor on his.

  If she called again tonight, I’d be ready with questions. If she didn’t, I’d have a glass of wine, a good book, and some of the old crooners playing in the background.

  ##

  I sat in my favorite chair and, for a moment, relaxed, closing my eyes to enjoy the comfort and serenity. Then thoughts of Ron rushed in and I wondered how he was and what he was doing?

  Did he run away today? Was he still sober? Would he be able to stay clean? Does he still hate me?

  The questions were the same every day, and, of all of them, the last one was probably the least important as far as his future was concerned but the most important for me. I was forty-two years old, with a dead wife, and a kid in rehab who hated me. And no bridge nearby to jump from.

  Where’s a fucking gun when you need it?

  The trouble was, I did have a gun, several of them, and too often I’d been tempted to use them. The irony was that the main reason I didn’t was because of Ron, and the main reason I thought of it was because of Ron. I should have been there for him after Mary died. Instead I wallowed in self-pity and left him to his own devices. I took my anger and frustration out on drug dealers; he dealt with his anger by turning to drugs.

  Somewhere between “woe is me” and “God help me” the phone rang. I nearly jumped from my seat. I let it ring a few more times, then picked it up. “Hello?”

  “I tried to call earlier. Where were you?” It was her again. No doubt. I looked at the clock—it was only eight.

  “Who are you?”

  “No need to go into that again. Names are unimportant. Did you find out about the eyes? They were blue, weren’t they?”

  I checked the caller ID (I had bought a new phone at Tip’s insistence.), but it read unknown. That made me think of the grave in the cemetery of the Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Where was Eli Wallach when he was needed?

  “I guess you already know the eyes were blue. I have two questions regarding that. How did you know? And how did you know? And one is as important as the other.”

  She laughed, another one of those throaty laughs she was so good at. And as I listened to her I felt positive that she was disguising her voice; in fact, it sounded familiar.

  “I thought we had an agreement that I would ask the questions. Besides, you didn’t expect me to answer, did you?”

  “Maybe we better tape these conversations so we both know what was said, because I remember it differently.”

  “Detective, I’m surprised at you. I’m sure you’re already taping this call, and tomorrow you’ll have it analyzed and traced and followed up on in a hundred ways.” She laughed again, and while she was laughing I scrambled for my cell phone so I could tape the call, even if I had to use the cell held up to the earpiece. “That won’t matter though.” A pause, then, “Did you get the time of death? What time did she die—exactly?”

  “This should be a two-way street. What do I get?”

  “I could promise a lot, but suppose I told you that…let’s see…I could tell you what the victim was wearing before the body was dumped.”

  What the hell is going on? Did this woman kill her? “How would you know that?”

  “Let’s say I’ve seen pictures.”

  “There are no pictures.”

  “Oh my, Detective, you surprise me. How do you know there aren’t pictures? How do you know the killer didn’t take photos as keepsakes?”

  Holy shit! “Do you have pictures?”

  I could hear what sounded like her fingers tapping on a tabletop, or something.

  “Time of death? I seem to recall that issue still hanging out there.”

  I didn’t figure it would hurt to tell her this, and it might even get us something in return. “Three days ago.”

  “More specifically?”

  One tough bitch. “Sometime from early evening up to maybe ten at night.”

  “Thank you, Detective. I didn’t expect you to be honest. It’s refreshing. Perhaps we’ll talk again.”

  “Hang on a minute. You’ve got to give me
something.”

  A long silence followed.

  I thought I heard her breathing, but wasn’t sure. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, and I’m trying my best to help you.” More silence, then, “Did you find a dress? Assuming you did, I’ll bet if you traced it you’d get clues. Follow that lead and I’m certain you’ll have this solved in no time. In fact, if it’s the one I’m thinking of, it should be easy to trace.”

  “And which dress would that be?” I asked, while furiously jotting down notes.

  “A blue dress. Very expensive.”

  CHAPTER 19

  TRACE THE CALL

  Houston, Texas

  I didn’t want to bother Tip again at home, but I knew he’d want to hear about this immediately. He answered on the first ring. It made me wonder just where he kept his cell phone, as every time I called, he answered on the first or second ring.

  “She called again,” I said.

  “I assume no caller ID.”

  “Unknown.”

  “Anything new?”

  “I told her the time of death and when I did, she knew it was right, like she was testing me. And oh, yeah, the best part is, she said the blue dress is a clue. That if we follow the—”

  “We don’t have a blue dress.”

  “I know we don’t. And get this. She implied that she’d seen pictures of the crime scene.”

  “What the fuck!”

  “Exactly what I thought..”

  “Who could have pictures of the scene other than the murderer?” Tip pondered his statement for a moment. “Do you think a woman could have done it?”

  “Keep in mind, Tip, she didn’t say for sure that she’d seen pictures, but she implied it.” I wished I had the damn call taped from the beginning, but I have a bad recording of the end.”

  “Did you get anything?” Tip asked.

  “Nothing I could tell. I’ll let you listen tomorrow, although I think I recognized something about the voice. And she’s definitely disguising it. Which makes me more convinced that we need to find out where she’s calling from, but I’ll bet it’s a disposable cell.”