A Killing Fair (3 page)

 

Chapter 4: The Hunt Begins

D
on O'Rourke agreed with my plan to question Vinnie Luciano's employees and friends, so I headed for King Vinnie's Steakhouse Thursday morning. I arrived at opening time for lunch, 11:00 a.m., hoping to talk with the person most likely to know everything—the bartender. Instead, I found a note on the door stating that King Vinnie's was closed until further notice because of the owner's death. I should have known.

As I turned away from the door, I met a man in a dark-gray three-piece suit coming up the steps. “It's closed,” I said. “Until further notice.”

“I should've known,” the man said. “It's just such a habit to come here that I didn't even think about it.”

“You eat here often?”

“Just five days a week. I try to get here in time to have a beer before lunch and shoot the shit with some of the other regulars at the bar.”

“Ever see or hear anything that might be a reason for murder?”

“I saw and heard lots of stuff that could lead to murder, but not of Vinnie. I'm Charlie Freeman by the way. I've got a law office just up the street.”

I had figured him for a lawyer. Who else goes to lunch in a three-piece suit when it's eighty-five degrees in the shade?

“Mitch Mitchell,” I said. “I'm a reporter for the Daily Dispatch.”

“You wrote the story in the paper,” Charlie said. “Sounded like you were right there when Vinnie died.”

“Almost as close as I am to you. It was an awful thing to watch. You say you saw things in Vinnie's that could lead to murder?”

“Well, not literally I guess. But there were some pretty hot arguments sometimes. Luckily, Vinnie had a way of cooling things off without pissing off either side.”

“Maybe that wasn't always true. Maybe somebody carried a grudge after one of those arguments.”

“Maybe, but I don't know who that would be.”

“Do you remember who was involved in the last big argument you saw Vinnie stop?”

“Oh, jeez, that would have been last week on Monday. Or maybe Tuesday. One of the guys was another lawyer, David Cook. Got an office downtown, but he drives out to King Vinnie's two or three times a week. He's kind of a hothead, especially when it comes to politics. Big spender for the Republican party.”

“Do you remember the other guy's name?”

“No clue. It was the first time I'd seen him in Vinnie's. I remember somebody said he was a high mucky-muck with the Teamsters.”

“Well, thanks. I think I'll go have a chat with Mr. Cook.”

“Don't tell him I sent you,” said Charlie Freeman.

 

* * *

 

Obviously I couldn't walk in on David Cook, PCP, and ask him if he'd sent a poisoned Square Meal on a Stick to Vinnie Luciano. I decided to use a ploy that always worked. I'd tell him I was doing a roundup of comments on Vinnie's death from people who knew him well, then slide into some questions about Cook's argument with the Teamster official.

Cook's office was on the skyway near Seventh and Wabasha, only about three blocks from the Daily Dispatch. I walked through the entrance into a reception area with a door on each of the three other walls. A heavyset woman with white-tinged dark hair sat at a reception desk in front of the middle door. A small bronze plaque identified her as Margaret. Margaret looked up at me, put on a perfunctory smile and asked if she could help me. We went through the usual routine of me identifying myself and asking to see Mr. Cook, and she asking what I wished to see him about.

“It's about Vinnie Luciano,” I said.

“The restaurant owner who died at the fair yesterday?” she said.

“That's right.”

“I don't know that Mr. Cook has anything to say about Mr. Luciano.”

“I believe he might be willing to help me with a comment about Mr. Luciano's death. It'll only take a minute.” I didn't think David Cook was the killer, but the man he'd argued with was a possibility. I was hoping to get his name.

Margaret sighed, picked up the phone, tapped a number and spoke to her boss. She sighed again when she put down the phone. “He says you can go right in.” She waved toward the door directly behind her.

I thanked her and went into David Cook's domain. The office contained two matching upholstered chairs and an over­stuffed sofa. The floor was thickly carpeted in burgundy, and the walls were lined with books, framed documents, and photos of David Cook with political figures, all of whom were Republicans. David Cook sat in a large leather chair behind a dark walnut desk. He wore a navy blue suit but no vest.

Cook rose, held out his hand for shaking across the desk, said it was a pleasure to meet me and motioned me toward one of the chairs. “So, you're looking for a statement of my reaction to Vinnie's death?” he asked when I was seated.

“That's the main reason I'm here,” I said. I flipped open the reporter's notebook I was carrying and prepared to write.

“Vinnie was a dear friend and a wonderful host, and I shall miss him terribly,” Cook said. “My sympathies go out to his wife and family. I can't imagine who would do such a horrible thing or why. I only hope the killer is brought to justice quickly.”

Let's see, how many clichés was that? I count five.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now the other reason I'm here is that I've been told you had a hot and heavy argument with somebody in King Vinnie's last week. I'm wondering if—”

Cook's face turned red as he cut me off. “Who told you that?”

“Reporter's privilege,” I said.

“Fuck that. Are you implying I had something to with what happened to Vinnie?” He stood up, and I thought he might come around the desk and attack me. Charlie Freeman had been right about David Cook's temper.

Cook was the size of a pro football linebacker, so I also rose to be ready if he charged. “Not at all,” I said. “I'm wondering if you know the name of the man you were arguing with.”

“You think he might be involved?”

“It's possible. Anyway I'd like to talk to him—get his reaction. Do you know who he is?”

“He's Fred McDonald, head of the local Teamsters Union.”

“I take it you were arguing politics?”

“Damn right we were. Left-wing liberal bastard thinks he's entitled to everything under the sun at the taxpayers' expense. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if he was involved in the murder. He walked out in a huff after Vinnie broke us up. Said we'd both be sorry. And you know the Teamsters can be real hard-assed.”

“I do. Thanks for your time and the information. I'll make sure your statement gets into a story about Vinnie's death.”

“Don't tell Fred McDonald that you got his name from me,” Cook said.

As I passed Margaret on the way out, I said, “Mr. Cook was very helpful. Thanks for your assistance.” She did not say, “You're welcome.”

 

* * *

 

I swung by the Daily Dispatch office to find out where Fred McDonald could be found and to make a routine phone check with Falcon Heights Detective K.G. Barnes. The first was easy; the second had me gritting my teeth.

“We're investigating the murder of Mr. Vincent Luciano,” Barnes said when I asked if there were any new developments in the case.

“It would be front-page news if you weren't,” I said. “What I'm looking for is anything new since yesterday's chat with Fairchild.”

“We're investigating the murder of Mr. Vincent Luciano.”

“And have you learned anything additional since we last spoke?”

“We have nothing for the media at this time.”

“No medical examiner's report on the official cause of death?”

“We have nothing for the media at this time.”

“Any estimate when you will have something? Like maybe the medical examiner's report?”

“No, Mr. Mitchell, we do not. Have a nice day,” Barnes said as she hung up.

“Bitch,” I said as I put down my phone. Apparently working with the Falcon Heights KGB was going to be as much fun as dealing with the original Soviet version. Unless I'm taking notes, I tend to doodle when I'm on the phone. I had almost drawn a complete hammer and sickle during the conversation with KGB.

“Was that our friendly detective with the scary initials?” said Al, who had perched on a small open space on the corner of my desk while I was talking.

“The one and only,” I said. “If they still made vinyl records, she'd be cracked.”

“Repetitious is she?”

“Talking to her is like watching the movie Ground Hog Day only not half as much fun. Plus she uses the royal ‘we' while she's telling you nothing.”

“Sounds like a royal pain in the ass.”

“You can say that again.”

“Sounds like a royal—”

“Stop! I didn't mean it.”

“Just keeping you sharp for dealing with the KGB,” Al said. “How about lunch?”

“That's the first positive thing I've heard today,” I said. “Lead on to the cafeteria, and I'll tell you about the people I've met so far.”

 

* * *

 

I don't know what I expected from Fred McDonald, but it wasn't the big smile, crushing handshake and “it's great to meet you” that welcomed me when his secretary escorted me into his office. I'd approached with the usual story about doing a roundup of comments about Vinnie Luciano, and McDonald, a rugged-looking man in his early fifties, had invited me in.

“I read your piece on Vinnie's death and damn near puked,” McDonald said. “Great writing. Made me feel like I was right there beside Vinnie while he was twisting and thrashing around. But how in hell could you stand there and watch all that?”

“I had to look away during the worst of it,” I said. “But Al Jeffrey, the photographer, watched the whole thing. Maybe looking at it through a camera lens made it less real.”

“I know you're looking for a comment about what a great guy Vinnie was, but you're in the wrong place. I barely knew the man.”

“You weren't one of the so-called regulars?”

“A week ago Monday was the first time I ever went into the place. And I'll never go back, Vinnie or no Vinnie. I didn't like the atmosphere, if you know what I mean.”

“Now that you mention it, I understand that you were involved in quite a scene that day.” As I said this, it occurred to me that if this man had arranged for Vinnie's horrible death that he might do the same for a snoopy reporter.

“Yeah, I got into it with that asshole rightwing lawyer over the crap that the Republican legislature's doing. What's his name? Cook, I think it is.”

“Yes. David Cook.” Oops, I'd all but said straight out that David Cook had steered me to this office.

“So what about it? You think that argument had something to do with Vinnie getting poisoned?”

“I understand Vinnie broke up the battle and I wondered if you thought Cook might have been mad enough at Vinnie to set up something like that.”

McDonald laughed. “No, you didn't. That asshole Cook told you I threatened him and Vinnie when I went out the door, didn't he?”

I was trapped and I felt my face getting warm. “He did,” I said, confirming my previous booboo.

“Well, he's full of shit. I yelled a few things because I was pissed but it was just blowing off steam. I ain't your killer, Mitch. I don't know shit about poison.”

“I didn't think you killed Vinnie. I just wanted to get your slant on the incident.” I was hoping McDonald would buy this lie, but the look on his face told me he did not.

“Did Cook tell you I had something to do with Vinnie's murder?”

“No, nothing like that. He just said you yelled that both he and Vinnie would be sorry.”

McDonald laughed again. “If he's worried about that I bet he won't be eating anything on a stick next time he goes to the fair.”

I joined in the laughter. “Could be,” I said. “Well, I guess I'll be on my way. Thanks for your time.”

“Nice meeting you, Mitch,” McDonald said. “Don't take any wooden food on a stick.” He was still laughing as I went out the door.

“How'd it go with the Teamster king?” Al asked when I got back to the office.

“I made a royal ass of myself,” I said.

“I've always said you were a self-made man.”

I still really wanted to talk to Vinnie's bartender. If anybody had seen or heard anything suspicious it would be him. My problem was I didn't know his name. Nor did I know the name of anybody else who worked at King Vinnie's. I expressed my frustration.

“What about that guy you said you met at King Vinnie's?” Al said. “The one who eats there five days a week. He probably knows the bartender's full name, date of birth and place of residence.”

“You're right,” I said. “He said he always starts off with a beer and shoots the shit with the regulars at the bar. I could kiss you.”

“Not here. Don already thinks we're connected at the head.” This was true. Although I was four inches taller than Al, Don O'Rourke called us the Siamese twins, which I kept reminding him was politically incorrect, and said we were joined at the funny bone—our skulls.

I looked up Charles Freeman, PPC, in the phone book, called the number and got his secretary. She informed me that Mr. Freeman was with a client and took a message. I was shutting down my computer, preparing to go home, when he finally called.

“Of course I know the bartender's name,” Freeman said. “It's Ozzie.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What's his last name?”

“Ooh, that's a little tougher. I should know it. Ozzie . . . Ozzie . . . Ozzie . . . Bergman. That's it. Ozzie Bergman. Now I remember. His real first name is Leonard but he goes by Ozzie because he hates that name. Lives on the West Side.”