“Now you’re talking,” Stone said.
“Scali.”
“What?”
“Scali — that was the name on the painters’ truck.”
When Stone got back to his office Joan came in to see him. “The police have finished with Evan Hills’s car,” she said. “What do you want to do with it?”
“Get me Bruce Willard on the phone, will you?”
She buzzed him a moment later. “Line one.”
“Hello, Bruce?”
“Hello, Stone. How are you?”
“Very well. How did the funeral go?”
“It was all very quick — just Elton Hills, me, the undertaker, and the bishop.”
“What’s Hills like?”
“Actually, we’re getting on very well. He asked me to stay for a few days and catalog his furniture, and the job has expanded to the silver and the art, as well. I’m photographing everything and using my laptop to research sale prices on comparable pieces. I should be here for at least a week. Since I only packed for overnight, his housekeeper is doing my laundry every day.”
“Did Hills have anything to say about the Times piece?”
“He was outraged, just as Evan was. It’s very secluded here, there’s only one TV, and it’s got to be twenty years old and receives through rabbit ears. What’s the reaction been in the outside world?”
“A general uproar. The attendees at the meeting are running for the hills. Four of them denied being present at the meeting before the piece even came out. The Times has hired Strategic Services, a security company on whose board I serve, to compare the voices on the tape to news tape and interviews, and they might just make some of the attendees that way. Anyway, we have Evan’s list of who was there, and all four of the deniers are on the list.”
“What has Katharine Lee had to say about it?”
“She and her husband are declining to comment, since there were no laws broken. They’re letting the media carry the ball.”
“I hope they make lots of touchdowns,” Bruce said.
“Bruce, I called about Evan’s car. The police have released it. Would you like it sent to you in Washington? I can have it flat-bedded down there. A window needs replacing.”
“Yes, please, send it to my garage.” Bruce gave him the address.
“A lawyer in my firm’s Washington office is handling the will. He says everything is in order, but it may still take a little while. I gave him your number. He’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you. Listen, I’d better get back to work, there’s a lot to do.”
“Take care, then.”
Joan came back in. “Is Bruce coming to see us again?”
“I don’t think so,” Stone said.
Joan sighed and went back to her office.
42
Dino called in Detective First Grade Carmine Corretti for a chat late in the day.
“How you been, Carmine?” he asked, when he had settled Corretti into a chair and poured him a scotch.
“Pretty good, Commish,” the detective said.
“How much longer to retirement?”
“Four months. We bought a condo in Boca.”
“Sounds good. Think you’ve got one more good case in you?”
“I just might be able to muster the strength.”
“You spend much time in the neighborhood these days?”
“I still live there.”
“You know the old painter guy Scali?”
“Sure. Haven’t seen him for a few years. My old man used to play boccie with him. ’Course, the old man is gone now, but he and Stefano Scali were tight.”
“You know about the dead Irish priest?”
“The one that turned up in Jamaica Bay in pieces?”
“That’s the one.”
“I heard about it. Any leads?”
“No leads, but a hunch, maybe.”
“You still get hunches, Commish?”
“Yeah, and I still got a few of my own teeth.”
“What’s your hunch?”
“I think the priest may have been killed in a building up a creek from Jamaica Bay.” Dino got a map of the area from his desk and spread it on the coffee table. “The building’s right here,” he said, pointing at a dot near the creek.
Corretti gazed at the map, then there was a tiny flinch. “I know this location,” he said.
“Do you, Carmine?”
“Sure, that’s the Bianchi place.” He pointed. “The big house is right about here.”
“Right. Eduardo died, you know.”
“Everybody knows. Who lives in this building you’re talking about?”
“Nobody. It’s used as an art studio, and it had some recent renovations.”
“And Scali painted it?”
“You’re way ahead of me, Carmine.”
“You think the priest was chopped up there?”
“No, Pietro would have been more careful than that.”
“Pietro? That’s one sinister guy, you know?”
“I know.”
“Why would Pietro want the priest dead?”
“Pietro didn’t even know about the priest until he was already dead. I think he might have died in that old stone barn, and if he did, he could have done some bleeding before the body got moved.”
“So, you want me to get a warrant and have a look around?”
“No warrant. I just want you to talk to Stefano Scali and see if he noticed anything out of order in the barn. Then get back to me, and we’ll see where we go from there.”
“Sure, Commish.”
“And don’t take your partner.”
“This gonna be just between us, Commish?”
“Just between us.”
Carmine Corretti got home around six and kissed his wife, Gina. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she replied. “You up for a scotch?” They had one together every evening.
“Yeah, but first I gotta run an errand.”
“What kind of errand?”
“I gotta talk to a guy a couple of blocks over, on Mulberry.”
“What guy?”
“It’s about a case. I can’t talk about it.”
Gina kissed him on the neck. “You can always talk to me.”
“Not this time, babe. I’m doing this for the commissioner, and he wants no talk.”
“Secret stuff, huh?”
“Just confidential stuff — you know how it is. I’ll be home in half an hour, forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll keep the ice cubes warm.”
Carmine left his house and walked over to where Stefano Scali had his business. The garage door in front was open and Scali and two of his men were sweeping and mopping the floors.
“Carmine!” Scali said, dropping his broom and pumping the detective’s hand. “Long, long time. How you doin’?”
“I’m doin’ good, Stef. You?”
“Never better.”
“Business good?”
“Can’t complain. People always need a coat of paint on things. You want a Strega?”
“Thanks, but Gina’s expecting me home. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure, anything.”
“Did you do some work out at Eduardo Bianchi’s place recently?”
“Me and my old man before me been doing Eduardo’s painting for forty years.”
“Recently?”
“Yeah, the girl turned the old stone barn into an art studio.”
“And you painted it?”
“Sure, I did. She’s a looker, that girl — bella, bella!”
“While you were there, you notice anything out of order?”
“You mean like the toilet, or something?”
“Nah, I mean, like was there a mess or anything?”
“The place was neat as a pin while I was working, and we didn’t spill a drop.”
“Anybody else spill anything?”
“You mean like food?”
“You see any stains on the floors or walls?”
Stefano thought about it. “Our last day there, we got to work at eight, and there was some stains on the floor. I cleaned ’em up.”