Private Lies Page 12

  “These guys got names?”

  “None that they was givin’. None that I was askin’. These two were the real.”

  “What did these real guys want with you?”

  “They bring me bags. Duffel bags, backpacks, sometimes luggage. Nothin’ ever new. Some weeks there’s one bag, some weeks more. One time there was five of ’em.”

  “What’s in the bags?”

  Vistole scanned the room again. Horst wondered what he was looking for this time.

  “First, I thought it was dope, know what I mean?” Vistole used his free right hand to wipe a line of sweat off his lips. “They tell me—the two guys who bring the bags my way—they tell me never mind what’s in them. Just deliver them like a good boy. Somebody’s gonna give me five hundred dollars on the other end if I get them there on time.”

  “But you looked, didn’t you?”

  Vistole shrugged. “It was a rough day. I needed a little something to calm me down. I figured no one would miss a joint…a couple of pills. I mean, it was maybe two, three weeks in by the time I copped a peek. No one on the Madison end had opened any of the bags to do an inventory. I figure how would they even know?”

  “And?”

  “And it wasn’t dope at all. It was money. Bag after bag of it. Always hundred-dollar bills. Always bundled and stacked nice and neat. I mean honest to shit! One time there was five big bags filled with hundred-dollar bills!” Vistole huffed out a sigh. “I’m not stupid enough to think that hadn’t been counted on both ends! I zipped that bag straight up and headed into Madison. But it was then and there I decided I’d start having someone ride with me.”

  “That when you started carrying your piece?”

  “Wouldn’t you? I mean, here I was transporting bags of money for the mob. You tell me you wouldn’t pack!”

  “Where did you take the money?”

  “That’s the damned thing. It was always the same place. Same time. Every week. Like some sort of factory job or go-ahead-and-set-your-watch-to-it kind of thing. Never any hassles. I drive up to this vacant building. Got a parking lot ’round back. Sure enough, there’s a couple of guys waiting. I drop off whatever load I’m carrying, they take it, give me my five hundred, and we don’t even exchange a word.” Vistole’s eyes glistened. “I mean, can you see it? Precision! That’s how the organization works! Like a goddamn Hail Mary from Rodgers to Nelson. Boom! Did and done! That’s why I don’t get why they changed it. Everything was working so well. But last Friday? Last Friday they tell me to make the drop at some run-down corner shop. It wasn’t my place to ask, though. But sure as hell, we break from what was workin’ and the next thing you know it’s cops and bullets!”

  “You wouldn’t have voiced your concerns about the switch to anybody, now would you, Frankie?”

  “Nah.”

  “Really? Because what put our guys at the shop is some junkie telling us you were bragging about making a major delivery. You don’t recall anything like that happening?”

  Again, Vistole fidgeted as much as his shackles allowed. “I’m a professional. Wouldn’t be like me to brag about Chicago’s doings.”

  Horst realized there was nothing to be gained by challenging him on that fantasy.

  “Where did you usually take the money? Back when things were running smoothly?”

  “I told you. Some boarded-up factory. Over to the east side. Not far off Blair. The one with the wood in the windows and the chain-link fence around the parking lot.”

  And the second-story iron-railed balcony, Horst thought. The one that is barely visible behind all those ivy vines.

  Chapter 22

  “Well, this has to be some kind of record.” Sydney set the box loaded with soup, salad, and bread, on Rick Sheffield’s kitchen counter. “One week from flat on the pavement, bleeding like someone put a spigot in you—”

  “A thirty-eight-caliber spigot,” Rick interrupted.

  “Through surgery, rehab, and now back home.”

  Rick looked up from the makeshift camp that had been arranged around his sofa. “Well, technically, I got home last night. So, let’s make that six days.”

  “Of course. I forgot how competitive you can be.”

  “And another technicality, I’m not completely done. Doc says there’s still a lot of resting and rehab in my future.” He indicated the setup he had. “How do you like it? Cooler here for water and juice. Enough pillows to suffocate me if I turn the wrong way. Snacks on this table, meds on this one.”

  “And the remote control in your hand, I see?”

  Rick shrugged. “Haven’t had to use it much. There’s been a steady stream of folks checking in on me. I don’t imagine that’s going to dry up anytime soon.” He winked. “Of course, if you give me the specifics of when you might be dropping by, I’ll make sure the coast is always clear.”

  Sydney pulled out a small plastic bag of shredded meat. “Where’s Jocko’s dish?” At the sound of his name, the golden retriever who had been resting with his head on Rick’s feet sat at attention. “I’ve got some prime rib shavings for him.”

  “Next to the back door.”

  Sydney emptied the bag into the dog dish. She was impressed that Jocko didn’t make a move until Rick gave him the all clear. Once he did, however, Sydney had to hurry to step out of the way of the galloping dog. She went back into the living room and sat next to where Rick reclined on the couch.

  “I’ll bet you’re glad to be home,” she said. “Happy to see Jocko again.”

  His eyes smiled as he held her gaze. “And happy to see you. Thank you for all the goodies. Both at the hospital and here. But you don’t have to. Open my refrigerator and you’ll see I’ve got enough food for a month. Open the freezer and see even more.”

  “People feel helpless when something like this happens,” Sydney told him. “We want to do something. Feeding you seems the likely thing.”

  He flinched as he raised his arm to touch her shoulder. “You do something for me every time I see you, Sydney.”

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, wishing she could brush away her sudden discomfort as easily.

  “So, what’s next?” she asked.

  “I told you. Rest and rehab. Can’t go near the station until the inquiry is completed.”

  “Which shouldn’t take any time at all. That man shot you first.”

  “You never know how these things will go. I’ll be up to my ears with investigators wanting to hear what I have to say. The chief is going to make sure this goes down with all Is dotted.”

  “This is Charles’s first officer shooting since he took the old chief’s job.”

  Rick’s right eyebrow arched. “Charles? You’re on a first-name basis with Madison’s new chief of police? What did I miss? Have you been elected mayor while I was in surgery?”

  Sydney smiled. “I’m friends with his wife. At least we’re starting what I hope will be a friendship. Leslie’s a delightful woman.”

  “Big money, from what I hear. Prairie Construction, is that right?”

  “Right. Leslie’s taken over operations since her father retired.”

  Rick nodded. “And Mrs. Chief…Leslie…She introduced you to her husband?”

  “We’ve been out socially. In fact, we were at dinner together when Charles got word that you’d been shot.”

  “We?”

  Sydney took a deep breath. “Clay and I.”

  The sofa allowed him to move less than an inch away from her, but it was enough for Sydney to notice.

  “Well, I’m glad you and Clay are enjoying yourselves.” He lifted the remote. “Thanks for the care package, Syd. But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’m up for a little alone time.”

  “But I just got here. I thought we’d play some gin. Get your mind off your pain.”

  �
�I have drugs for that.” Rick’s tone was all business. “Besides, it’s Friday. In a couple of hours, it’ll be Friday night. Don’t you have a restaurant or two to run?”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” She stood.

  He looked up at her. “Can you make sure the door’s locked when you leave?”

  Chapter 23

  “How in the hell did this happen?” Chief of Police Charles Arbeit stood behind his desk, roaring at the three people standing in his office on a Saturday afternoon. “And so help me, if anyone dares to say they have no idea, they can forget about building a career in public service.”

  Sergeant Milo Lovash looked at the other two targets of the chief’s anger before he spoke. “I first heard of it this morning. I got word that the DA wanted a list of all serial numbers, so I proceeded to the evidence locker.”

  Jennifer Fisher, assistant district attorney for Dane County, spoke next. “I wanted to get a jump on Monday, have everything I needed. Vistole’s due to be discharged on Monday and—”

  “I thought he was being discharged today,” the chief interrupted. “What the hell happened there?”

  “His attorney intervened,” ADA Fisher explained. “Apparently Vistole’s been complaining about undermedicated pain. His attorney discussed it with Vistole’s physician and it was agreed they’d keep him there until Monday.”

  “He was shot in the leg!” Arbeit yelled. “Detective Sheffield took a slug, close range, in the gut. It’s my understanding he’s already home. Or did someone intervene in that one, too?”

  “Detective Sheffield is at home, sir,” Lovash answered. “Doing well from all I hear. Couple of the guys had a beer at his place last night.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it would have been better had they been attending to the evidence locker instead of Detective Sheffield.” He turned to the third person in the room. “But, wait. That was your job, wasn’t it?”

  Officer Gerhart Svenson wiped a heavy hand across his jowly chin. “My shift ended five o’clock last night, sir. Everything was locked tight and accounted for when I left. That I can assure you.”

  “Then what happened?” Arbeit raged. “Someone tell me how in God’s name over a million dollars disappeared from a fully-staffed police station. Who spelled you at shift change, Svenson?”

  Svenson looked to his right and left. But Lovash and Fisher kept their eyes riveted on the chief.

  “It was Friday, sir,” Svenson explained. “Monitoring of the evidence locker falls to the desk sergeant after five. Now, if we’re planning a raid or something big comes in, then we’ll bring in a duty-specific manager. But on the weekends, what with budget cuts and all, and since it’s not typical that anybody from the DA’s gonna need anything over the weekend, it’s simply locked up. If anyone needs anything, the keys are with the desk sergeant.”

  Arbeit snapped his gaze to Lovash. “And you were the desk sergeant last night?”

  “I was, sir. I pulled a double. Christos’s wife had their baby yesterday. Asked if I’d cover for him.”

  “And did anyone request keys to the evidence room?”

  “No, sir. No one did. I left the station around 11:30. Came back in at seven this morning. Got the call from ADA Fisher around nine. The key was right where it was when I left last night. When I discovered the money was missing, I contacted Sergeant Willers. He was staffing the desk overnight. He said no one sought entrance to the evidence room.”

  “Where is Willers now?” Arbeit thundered.

  “Emergency room, sir,” Lovash answered. “His boy’s there. Something about a bad turn during his soccer game. Says he’ll come in as soon as his boy’s released.”

  “I want officers at that hospital with him. Now! Willers is to come straight from the hospital to me!” He alternated glances between Lovash and Svenson. “You two will stand down, of course, until this matter is resolved. Expect your homes to be searched.”

  “Of course, sir!” both men responded in unison.

  Chief Arbeit turned to ADA Fisher. “What does this mean?”

  Jennifer Fisher was a veteran of nineteen years in the prosecutor’s office. Her tone signaled she wasn’t intimidated at all by answering the questions of an angry police chief.

  “Quite frankly, it means Frankie Vistole walks. Without that money, we’ve got nothing.”

  “But we have Ossie MacDonald,” the chief offered.

  “Who will say the duffel bag belonged to Vistole,” Fisher continued grimly. “Who will most assuredly deny it. Without the ability to check for Vistole’s DNA on the bag, it’s the word of one street scum against another.”

  “We have Sheffield. Vistole shot him. We have the bullets. We have Vistole’s gun. We have witnesses, for God’s sake.”

  “And Vistole’s lawyer will explain it away as self-defense. Sheffield was in plain clothes. Vistole will say he was in the store for any number of reasons. Buying a pack of cigarettes or maybe a jug of wine. Commotion starts, Vistole gets scared and runs out the back door. Next thing he knows, some guy in jeans and a shirt is running toward him with a gun.” She feigned a sympathetic voice in imitation of Vistole. “Your Honor, I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do. There was so much going on. I saw the man raise his gun and…and…and…”

  Arbeit slammed his hand against his desk. “Damn it! Damn it all!”

  “What about the video?” Svenson asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Arbeit all but screamed.

  “There’s a camera,” Svenson said. “Aimed at the door to the evidence room. Twenty-four-seven.”

  Arbeit blinked five times in rapid succession. “And I’m just hearing this?” The windows in his office shook from his volume. “Get me that recording!”

  “Now?” Svenson asked.

  The chief didn’t need to say a word. The look in his eyes was enough to send Svenson running out of the room.

  Chapter 24

  “What’s the big deal?” Nancy Richardson checked the goings-on in the kitchen through the window in Sydney’s office. “It’s six of them for dinner, right?”

  “That’s the head count. At least so far. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone as important as Father Moran traveled with an assistant,” Sydney answered. “For all I know, he might have himself an entire entourage.”

  The look on her mother’s face reminded Sydney of how much the woman detested shows of importance. Let your actions show people what you’re worth, her father used to repeat. Trappings are just that. You’ll get strangled in them every time. The memory of his instruction always came with her mother nodding her approval in the background.

  “Okay,” Nancy said. “Let’s say Mr. Big Shot Priest comes with a group. Even if it’s double—twelve people—we can handle that. Remember with the governor?”

  “Which time?”

  “The time he made reservations for eight. Something about some businesspeople from out of state looking to build a plant here.”

  “I remember,” Sydney said. “Twelve people walked through the door with him.”

  “That’s right. Thirteen of ’em.” Nancy jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “Roland called it the last supper. How long did it take for us to accommodate that group?”

  “If I’m recalling correctly, we steered them into the bar.”

  “That’s right,” Nancy said. “And we had a table ready for them before they were finished with their first drink. Boom, boom, boom. Everything smooth as silk. If we can do that with no notice whatsoever, I don’t see why we can’t handle a large reservation.”

  “And where do you expect us to make room, Mom? Hush Money’s booked out six weeks.”

  “Eight! But that’s not my point. My point is why does this hotshot guy out of New York need to have dinner at your friend’s house? Did I miss a memo? Is Hush Money
suddenly in the catering business?”

  “Call it a favor. Evidently Leslie’s parents have been close to this guy since he was a priest here in Madison. Family ties…business ties…Leslie’s mother wants to impress him. You can understand that, right?”

  Nancy sighed. “I want to impress someone, I cook for them myself.”

  Sydney smiled. “From the way Leslie and her brother describe their mother, I get the impression she wouldn’t know the difference between a Yankee pot roast and Boston Garden. Barney—that’s Leslie’s brother—says his mom’s been here a couple of times. She was hoping we had a private dining room. When I told Barney no such room existed, Leslie suggested Hush Money come to her home. She’s giving us full access to her formidable kitchen.” She winked. “Can’t blame a kid for wanting to please his mother, can you?”

  Nancy waved away Sydney’s tease. “Okay. Let’s say I’m gullible enough to buy that. Tell me, dear daughter, where are we going to get the staff to ship off to that formidable kitchen? We’re already down one head chef.”

  “Windy’s doing a terrific job,” Sydney pointed out.

  “No argument there. In fact, it’s been a slice of heaven not to deal with Roland’s soap opera the past few days. Did you know he’s called here ten minutes before opening every night he’s been in New York?”

  “Probably wants to make sure things are running smoothly.”

  “Malarkey!” Nancy disagreed. “He’s hoping we’re falling apart. When we let him know everything’s running on all pistons, you can hear the pout in his voice. That doesn’t stop him, though, from describing his day in torturing detail. To hear him tell it, the network had never had a star before he strolled on set.”

  Sydney smiled at the mental image of Roland Delmardo taking the Big Apple by histrionic storm. “I’m sure that’s how he sees it.”

  “Windy’s good. So is Sands. But we’ve got nobody we can send to your friend’s house. Not even on a Tuesday.”

  “So, we prepare it here. Our staff. Our kitchen. We tell Barney that he and Leslie can choose their menu from ours. No special orders. Windy makes extra. Simple.”