“According to her, Mr. Paradis came in sometime after three o’clock. He was there until at least seven. Just after six this call came in.”
Hollinger pulled a small chrome tape player from her briefcase. “All incoming calls to Beacon Security are recorded, correct?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Then have a listen,” she said, and pressed play. Franny: Hello? Male voice: You the detective looking into a nursing home called Meadowvale? Franny: That’s me. Who’s calling, please? Male: I have information. Franny: What kind of infor- Male: The helpful kind. As long as you can pay, say, five hundred cash. That a problem? Franny: It depends on the information, of course. It’s the client who pays. Male: You bring the cash, I’ll bring what I know. Then you decide if it’s worth it. Franny: I don’t think so. Male: Okay, three hundred. What I know about this place, your client can sue the shirts off their backs. Franny: Who are you? Male: I used to work there, okay? See what I’m saying? I know all kinds of shit about it but I got to keep a low profile. I don’t want them to know it was me who told you. Tell you what, man, we’ll start with a hundred, okay? Like a down payment. You like what I got, we’ll talk terms. Franny: Why don’t you come by the office now? Male: I told you why. Look, there’s a warehouse on Commissioners just west of the recycling plant. Erie Storage. Park behind there at twelve-thirty tonight with a hundred cash and I’ll tell you enough to show you I’m your man. Franny: I don’t think so. Male: You think I’m going to all this trouble to rob you of a hundred bucks? I could mug an old lady for more. Franny: I’m not worried. Male: Then be there. You’ll solve your case hands down.
And then the line went dead. The caller had suckered Franny cleanly, lowering his price until it was no obstacle, then making his information sound so tantalizing- the ex-employee who knows what really went on — that Franny had followed it blindly to his death.
“Jonah,” Hollinger said.
“Yes, Kate?”
Her smile all the way gone now. “The call came in on your line. Your buddy Francois answered it for you. Maybe he wanted to pay you back for everything you’d been doing for him. So let me ask again: who wants you dead?”
I said, “The voice on the tape sounded American. ‘You’ll salve your case hands down.’ Like from Chi- cah — go.”
“Or Buffalo,” she said. “They’ve got that Midwestern ah sound too. Does that ring any bells?”
“No.”
“I’m surprised you’re not being more forthcoming. Aren’t you still recovering from your last gunshot wound?”
I looked at her with new-found appreciation. “You checked me out.”
“It’s what I do,” she said. “So how’s the arm?”
“Much better, thank you. And you’ll have to take my word for it. I’m not up for arm wrestling.”
She gave me a quizzical look.
“Never mind,” I said. “Long story.”
“The gang you were investigating on that job, the Di Pietras. Heard from them lately?”
“No,” I lied.
She said, “Maybe they reached out to touch you.”
CHAPTER 28
When we got back to Beacon’s office, Hollinger went back to interviewing employees in the conference room; I stayed down at street level. I knew I should get back upstairs-Clint had made clear that we were all supposed to be on hand-but the thought that I had been the intended victim had my head buzzing like a hive of bees with anger issues. I called Dante Ryan instead and told him what had happened.
“All right,” he said. “That’s enough. Be outside your office in half an hour.”
“To do what?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“I can’t leave the office now. My boss’ll shit a brick.”
“Let him,” Ryan said. “You got other things to think about. Besides, you’re no use to him dead, right?”
“No.”
“Or to me, so get ready to take a ride.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Ryan, but when guys like you say let’s take a ride, guys like me usually wind up dead.”
“There a right way to take that?” he asked.
Ryan’s car was a three-year-old grey Volvo Cross Country wagon, with a child’s car seat strapped in the right rear position and shades on the rear windows that featured Looney Tunes characters: Bugs, Daffy, Elmer Fudd and Yosemite Sam. Elmer and Sam were both armed to the teeth, Elmer with a shotgun and Sam with a brace of pistols.
“You’re kidding,” I said as I got in.
“Not what you were expecting?” he asked.
“An SUV, maybe, or a Town Car. A Hummer. Definitely not the Dadmobile.”
“That’s the point,” Ryan said. “I drove a car like this even before we had Carlo. You know why? People see what they think they see. Someone sees this tub leaving a scene, they think I’m another witness, a passerby. Not the…” He stopped short of whatever he was going to call himself.
He adjusted his rear-view and side mirrors; he must have reset them while he was waiting for me, to give him a clear view of anyone approaching his car.
“How’s the DVP at this hour?”
I shrugged. The Don Valley Parkway is also known-for good reason and entirely without affection-as the Don Valley Parking Lot. The only northbound highway on the east side of the city, it’s always jammed, and conditions only get worse in the summer when the city crams a year’s worth of repairs into a few short months. “It should be bearable. It usually doesn’t clog up seriously for another hour.”
Ryan took the elevated Gardiner Expressway west to the northbound DVP. I liked the way he handled a car: aware of everything going on around him, cool and economical behind the wheel. Maybe it was a product of a life spent watching his back, but he seemed to anticipate what other drivers would do-handy in a city where few drivers have skill or judgment. Seconds later, as if to prove my point, a motorcyclist roared up on our right, bent flat over the front of his bike, going at least twenty miles an hour faster than anyone else. He swept through our lane a foot from our front bumper, then did the same to the car in front of us, cutting sharply back to the inside lane.
“You believe this lunatic?” Ryan said.
“He’ll make a good organ donor.”
“You know what depresses me? We could find out who ordered the hit, change his mind, save the kid’s life, settle things with Marco and still get killed by a moron on a bike.”
“If that’s all that depresses you, it’s the first sign you’re not Jewish.”
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said. “I got plenty else on my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Marco ordering a hit on you, but with someone other than me. It could mean he didn’t believe our little act in the park.”
“You certainly did your part to sell it,” I said.
“No joke, Geller. Marco’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he has his instincts, and if they tell him I’ve thrown in with you, we’re both in extremely deep shit.”
“It wasn’t Marco who ordered the hit.”
Ryan actually took his eyes off the road at that, giving me a sideways look that was mostly bewilderment, salted with a dash of scorn. “What do you mean?”
“Think about the timing. Marco didn’t get to the park Tuesday night until well after nine o’clock. The phone call Franny answered came in two hours before that.”
“Jesus, Geller, how many people you got after you?”
I told Ryan how Jenn and I had infiltrated Meadowvale, ending with our escape from the two hoods who had tried to corral us. I described the Melonhead and the Suit. Ryan didn’t say anything but his grip on the wheel tightened. I could see blood draining out of his knuckles.
I said, “What?”
“The guy with the round face.”
“What about him?”
“There’s a guy out of Buffalo looks like that. I mean, if I was asked to describe him, I’d have used the same words you did.”
“He have a name?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan snorted.
“Suddenly this is funny?”
“His name is Ricky Messina. He’s loosely connected to the Magaddinos.”