“Any idea who did it?”
“Someone who knew him . . . he was having a beer and eating a sandwich. Somebody else’s beer was there also, but Lassiter’s was mixed with a drug to knock him out. The coroner thinks he was unconscious when he took the bullet.”
“So it had to be someone he trusted,” I say.
“Damn straight,” says Vince. “If Lassiter thought he was in danger, a marine division couldn’t have killed him.”
What Vince is saying makes sense, but I still think Petrone was behind it. “It’s got to be Petrone,” I say, since Petrone had said to me that if he found Lassiter, we’d be “talking about him in the past tense.”
Vince shrugs. “I don’t care who did it. I’m just glad it got done.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Vince. You doing okay?”
“Yeah. I’m getting there. You up for Charlie’s later? There’s a college game on.”
Laurie and I were planning to spend a quiet night at home, but I know she’d want to support getting Vince back into the world. This news about Lassiter seems to have given him a lift, and I don’t want to do anything to discourage it. “Sounds great. Okay if I bring a date?”
“Only if it’s Laurie.”
We meet at seven-thirty, and by seven-forty-five the table is covered with burgers, french fries, and beer. The game is on ESPN 2; it’s Boise State versus Fresno State. The NCAA claims to be against gambling, yet they don’t complain when ESPN buys a game like this for national broadcast. Do they think there’s a single person east of Idaho who would be interested in Boise State-Fresno State if they weren’t betting on it?
I take Boise State minus seven points. For the entire first quarter, Vince is yelling at the bartender to adjust the color, refusing to believe me when I tell him that the football field in Boise is actually blue. My mind is filled with interesting tidbits of knowledge like that.
Boise is up twenty-one at the half when Pete Stanton comes in. He tells the bartender he’s going to run a tab, but the tab he’s talking about is mine.
“I knew I’d find you losers here,” he says, then turns to Laurie. “Female company excepted.”
Laurie smiles. “Exception noted.”
“What’s the score?” Pete asks.
“Twenty-eight-seven, Boise,” I say.
“Who’d you take?”
“Boise.”
“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “Money goes to money.”
Like most of his comments, I let this one slide off my wealthy back. “Anything new on Petrone?”
He nods. “Yeah, the word on the street is he didn’t hit Lassiter. He wanted to, but somebody beat him to it.”
“You believe that?” I ask.
“Yup. The people who told me would know one way or the other. And the word is that it had to be somebody Lassiter trusted. Also, the gun was a Luger. Not the Petrone group’s weapon of choice.”
“So who could it have been?” I ask.
“Come on, you want a list of the people that would want to see Lassiter iced?”
“I’d be at the top of that list,” says Vince.
Pete frowns. “You’re not confessing, are you, Vince? ’Cause I’m off duty.”
“Nah. But if I had a clean shot at him, I’d have taken it.”
I’m getting that disconcerting, “where the hell is the logic?” feeling again, and Laurie picks up on it. “Let it go, Andy,” she says. “You’re out of it now.”
But even if I wanted to drop it, Vince doesn’t. “If someone else killed Lassiter besides Petrone, you think that person could have killed Daniel as well?”
I shake my head. “No, I think it was Lassiter that shot Daniel.”
“Why?” Vince asks. “I still don’t see what he had against him. I mean, to frame him like that and then kill him . . .”
I don’t know what the indoor record is for quick, embarrassed eye contact, but Pete, Laurie, and I are certainly smashing it. The three of us know about Petrone’s accusations against Daniel, but we’ve left Vince in the dark. Right now that doesn’t feel right, and Laurie seems to agree. Her slight nod tells me she thinks we should come clean with Vince.
“Vince, there’s something I’ve got to tell you, something Dominic Petrone said.”
“What?” asks Vince, and he literally prepares himself for a bombshell by gripping the table with his hands.
“He said that Daniel hired Lassiter to kill Margaret and then reneged on the payment. That’s why Lassiter did what he did; he was getting revenge on Daniel.”
“He’s full of shit.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, made without thought. A defense of his son.
“I didn’t say he was right,” I say. “I just thought you had a right to know.”
“He’s wrong,” Vince says.
“Of course he is,” says Laurie.
“Did he say why he thought so?” Vince asks.
“No. But he didn’t say it’s what he thought. He said it’s what he knew.”
Vince takes a drink from his bottle of beer but finds it empty. He looks around for the waitress. “Whose ass do you have to kiss to get a beer around here?” It’s Vince’s way of ending this part of the discussion, and it’s fine with me.
I signal to the waitress that she should bring beers for everyone. Telling a man his son is a murderer is thirsty work.
• • • • •
ANOTHER LONG-STANDING tradition goes down the drain. And in this case, the drain is where it belongs.
For as long as I can remember, at the conclusion of every major case I’ve had, I take Tara and head down to Long Beach Island, where I rent a house and spend two weeks decompressing. It seems like I’ve done this for twenty years, but I realize that it’s actually only seven years since I rescued Tara from the animal shelter.
This time Laurie has come with us, and while I haven’t discussed it with Tara, I can’t believe we didn’t bring her along before. It’s really quite remarkable; Laurie is all plus, no minus. By that I mean that she is great company, terrific to talk to, and I love having her around. At the same time, there are no negatives; she doesn’t intrude, doesn’t make me feel like I have to entertain her or be anything other than myself. When I want to be alone, I can be alone, either literally or just with my thoughts.
And since Tara has twice as many hands petting and giving biscuits to her, I suspect she agrees with me.
At the ten-day mark, I’m trying to figure how to add another week onto the trip. And maybe another decade after that. A phone call from Willie puts an end to such fantasies.
“When are you coming home?” he asks.
“Why?” I evade. “Any problems at the foundation?”
“Nope. We’re doing great. I just wanted to know if you’d be home by Saturday.”
“I will if you need me,” I say.
“Good. I need you.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Sondra and I are getting married Saturday night. You’re the best man.”
“That’s a real honor, Willie. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Laurie walks into the room at that moment. “And neither would Laurie.”
“Good,” Willie says. “’Cause she’s the best woman.” I hear Sondra’s voice correcting him in the background, so he corrects himself. “Maid of something.”
“Maid of honor,” I say.
“Right.”
Willie goes on to tell us the location of the wedding, an Italian restaurant/pizzeria in Paterson. He’s negotiated a private room in the back. I would venture to say that Willie is the wealthiest person ever to get married in a pizzeria, but I think it has a certain panache.
I hang up the phone and turn to Laurie. “Willie and Sondra are getting married Saturday night. We are the best man and maid of honor, respectively.”