A Mighty Fortress (43 page)

“I’ll pass,” I said.

He shrugged and handed the pen over to Jace. I watched him closely to try and gauge whether he could actually read and write. It seemed he could, at least enough to sign the settlement agreement. Wilkes took the settlement agreement, and a wave of relief seemed to flush over him.

After the lawyer left, Pilka put on a conciliatory face and looked me right in the eyes. “So what’s it going to take, Porter?”

“Answer a few questions for me, and we can settle my expenses for a grand.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“For starters, why don’t you tell me the real reason you had a fallout with Scalzo?”

For the first time that day, Pilka looked to Angie before he answered. “You already know why, Porter. He was double-dealing.”

“But there was more to it, wasn’t there?”

Pilka chewed on his chapped lips and said, “You tell me.”

“He was blackmailing your clients, wasn’t he? News of that had gotten back to you, hadn’t it?”

Pilka shrugged. “Let’s assume that’s right. What difference does it make?”

“I think he blackmailed the wrong person. Maybe someone who provided you with
protection
, as you call it.”

“Interesting theory,” Pilka said. “But you’re making some assumptions.”

“About what?”

“Maybe Scalzo was my protection. You ever think about that?”

“That’d put you in quite a bind now, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Porter, and I don’t have time to listen to you pissing around in the dark. Now tell me, what’s it going to cost to end this with you?

“Like I said, a grand for the expenses and we’re even.”

Pilka nodded at Jace, who was already flipping through a wad of cash. Jace handed it over, and I quickly counted the ten Benjamins he’d handed me.
 

 
Pilka’s voice turned raspy. “With this, we’re done, you hear me? I don’t want to see you again, and I don’t want to hear from you.”

I put the folded bills in my pocket and stood. Angie followed suit. “We’ll see you tomorrow in court,” I said as we left the dining room.

“So what do you think?” I turned the laptop around so Angie could view it from her side of the booth. We’d stopped for lunch at Arzo, and I’d wasted no time putting her first advertisement together.

She read it aloud. “Evie, formerly of Erotic Encounters, is visiting for a few days. Available only for prior clients. Light screening required. Again, prior clients only!” She looked up from the screen. “Sounds a little harsh, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I wanted to get the point across.”

“You really think this is a good idea?”

“I don’t think the alternative of going back to Giuseppe empty-handed is any better.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

“What do you mean,
whatever
? This is important, Angie. Don’t you get that?”

“I don’t really care anymore.”

“Then why are we doing this? Why don’t we just throw in the towel now? I’ll tell Scalzo’s henchmen to come pick you up this afternoon.”

She looked at me like
I
didn’t get it, and I felt the same way.

“I’m trusting you, Milo. Whatever you think is best.”

“It won’t even get that far.”

“I’m telling you, though, unless I see them in person, there’s no way for me to identify him as Mr. Silver.”

“We can do that, but it’ll be dangerous.”

She shook her head as she mulled it over for a moment. “So you’re going to place this ad online, and then what?”

“They’ll email us at a new email address I made up. We’ll ask some questions about their last visit with you so we can confirm.”

“And you think whoever had the appointment Sunday night will admit that?”

“Maybe. For one thing, it’s possible they had nothing to do with his death. They could have sat around for hours waiting for him to call. If so, at least we’ll know that and we can scratch another suspect off the list. Or they could have been a witness to something helpful. I don’t know. I just know my gut tells me we have to find out who your date was Sunday night.”

“And you always listen to your gut.”

“That’s right.”
 

She turned the laptop back to me. “It’s fine. Let ‘er rip.”

I was about to hit send, when I said, “You know, I looked at a lot of these ads. It’s pretty sad, Angie.”

“Milo, please.”

“Just the number of girls—and that’s what you all are. Girls.”

“It’s just a stepping stone for me. I don’t use drugs. I’m safe and healthy. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m actually providing a valuable service to society.” She stood up and excused herself to the restroom.
 

I thought about what she’d just said, and wondered how many times she’d told herself that. Without thinking, I hit the button to post the ad. I was clinging to the hope that she’d recognize McSwain, and I’d never have to respond to any of the emails that were about to find their way to my new pimp email account.

I also had a hunch that was merely wishful thinking.

Tim McSwain lived on Bayshore Boulevard, an opulent road lined with mansions facing the newer but equally wealthy views of Harbor Island and, farther south, the dreary industrial scenery of Hillsborough Bay. Bayshore formed the eastern edge of South Tampa’s most prestigious neighborhoods, Hyde Park and Palma Ceia, with their array of Craftsmen bungalows, Mediterranean stucco homes, as well as gaudy McMansions more recently built on lots where quaint ranch homes once stood. Other than a few odd high-rise condos, the meandering lots on Bayshore were reserved mainly for pretentious homes set too close to the four-lane road that served as a makeshift highway for the thousands of people who lived in South Tampa and worked downtown. McSwain’s abode was a red-brick fortress with a circular drive in front. The three cars parked in the drive—a Lexus crossover, a BMW sedan, and a Toyota Prius—told me there was a good chance the man of the house was home.

“Should I wait in the car?” Angie asked when I parked behind the hybrid.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

Thirty seconds later I rang the doorbell. A succession of rings and dongs echoed throughout the mansion, and two dogs competed to see who could yelp the loudest.
 

The door opened, revealing an elegant woman in her mid-fifties. She wore tight cream Capri pants. Her toes glowed with maroon-painted nails, her feet wrapped in sandals of soft chocolate leather. Her blouse was sleeveless, a vibrant shade of tropical green. The pearls hanging from her neck matched the pants, like cream icing over the key lime shirt.
 

“Can I help you?” Her eyes and brow said she didn’t like the looks of us, but her smile was too refined to show it. One of the tiny terriers broke her barricade and darted at me, but stopped short of an attack. All bark, no bite. I knew the type too well.

“Good day, ma’am. We’re here to see Mr. McSwain. Are you Mrs. McSwain?”

She nodded. “I’m Gayle Smith-McSwain. Is my husband expecting you?” The smile had slipped, and a snarl flashed on her upper lip.

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Because he’s actually in a meeting now,” she added.

“Let me guess, his lawyer is here and drives that Lexus in your driveway?”

“You work for him?”

I shook my head. “I know Mr. Tim McSwain owns only a BMW 750 and a Toyota Prius. He drives the former. You drive the latter, presumably to your Rotary meetings and charitable fundraisers.”

“Can I help you?” Her tone no longer hid her frustration.

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” I handed her my card. “I’m Milo Porter. I’m a private investigator, and I’d really like to talk to Mr. McSwain. I’m sure he’ll agree it’s a rather important subject.”

She glanced at the card and then took a longer look at Angie. “And who is she?”

“She’s under my care. There are bad guys out there who want to kill her.”

Her eyes flickered for a moment before she pushed the door just short of closed.

Angie tugged at my belt and said, “Let’s go.”

“Give it a minute.”

It wasn’t that long before the door opened again, and Mr. McSwain asked us what the hell we wanted with a confounded glare. His hair was parted perfectly, and glossy from a residual sweat. He wore tennis clothes, probably following a late morning at the club before his lunch meeting with the attorney. He leered at me for a moment, and then the anger in his eyes reached its zenith when they saw Angie. “What the hell is
she
doing here?”

I looked to Angie.

“He’s Black,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“I know him all right, but he’s Black. Mr. Black. Not Silver.”

“You’re sure it’s not him?”

She nodded.

McSwain stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. “You have some nerve, you know that?”

“Actually, what we have is some questions,” I said. “And it’s about time we get some answers.”

“We had a deal. If Pilka thinks he can—”

“I don’t work for Pilka anymore. He fired me.”

“Then who do you work for?”

“I guess you could say I work for the Scalzo family.”

He took a deep breath and kept his eyes closed for a moment. He opened them and asked, “What do you want?”

“We want the truth, justice, all that jazz.” He didn’t believe me. I didn’t blame him, but still, it sounded cute.
 
“That’s all. The truth.”

“The truth is, Don Alexi killed Chad Scalzo. And Alexi couldn’t face the heat.”

“And what if Alexi didn’t do it?”

“Who the hell cares? The police say he did. He was a scumbag. Let it go.”

“And the real killer? What about justice?”

McSwain glanced back into his home before answering. “Justice? Justice is a façade, something we see on the news, made up so our wives and kids can sleep at night. I don’t care who really killed Chad Scalzo.”

“I do,” I said.

“Good for you, Porter. Just leave me out of it.”

“You answer my questions, we’ll leave you out of it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, let’s just say Pilka might change his mind about that settlement if he were to find out about that video of you and this girl standing here.”

“What do you mean? You were working for Pilka when you came to my office.”

“Indirectly. I can assure you Pilka didn’t know about the video. And he might change his mind about throwing in the towel on this lawsuit.”

I could tell he’d like nothing more than to reach across his porch and wring my neck. But we both knew how that’d play out. He assumed a hushed tone and said, “Listen, I can’t talk here. I can give you fifteen minutes in about an hour. Tell me where.”

I knew just the place.

I was on my second stout at Four Green Fields when McSwain finally showed. The bar was nearly empty, and only one bartender was on duty, a blonde I’d never seen before. She lacked the Irish accent, but still poured a nice pint of Guinness. I had just checked my new email account when McSwain showed his face. I quickly typed, “Do I know you?” to Angie’s most recent suitor, hit send, and turned my attention to McSwain.
 

He’d lost the tennis clothes, opting for khakis and a navy polo, and had added a pair of shades. He didn’t remove them inside the dark barroom. I nodded for him to sit. “Can I get you a drink, Tim?”

“No thanks.” He nervously twisted his wedding band around on his finger.

“Have it your way.” I looked to Angie. “You good?” She nodded, so I continued. “Let’s cut to the chase, Tim. What was the real deal between you and Scalzo?”

He removed his glasses and sighed as he tried to find his starting point. “You remember that story that broke a few years ago? That video that was leaked with Hulk Hogan banging that idiot shock jock’s wife?”

I nodded and said, “Bubba the Love Sponge?”

He nodded back. “Something like that. So, Scalzo approached me. He was enamored with that video and the publicity it got. He wanted to try and duplicate it with a lawsuit. He wanted this video to come out and make him and her,” he nodded to Angie, “famous and set them on the path to stardom. He thought the video coming out in a lawsuit would garner a lot of media attention and provide a surge of free promotion.”

“So what happened?”

“We worked it out. He said it was a foolproof plan. He wanted me to sue Pilka and allege they were using the premises for a sexual enterprise and terminate the lease.”

“So I take it Pilka wasn’t in on it?”

He shook his head. “No, we were going to make amends with him later.”

“And what were you going to get for playing along?”

“A ten-percent interest in this production company he was starting with some guy in Miami with connections.”

“That would be Brian,” Angie said.

I nodded and asked McSwain, “So what happened?”

“He went off the deep end, and Pilka fired him.”

“And what happened to you two?”

He looked uneasy, glanced around the room again. “Like I said, he went off the deep end.”

I could tell he was hiding something. “You need to be honest with me about something. Was he blackmailing you?”

McSwain’s eyes locked on me and told me all I needed to know. Then he nodded, slowly and reluctantly.
 

“For how much?” I asked.

“At first, a few grand.”

“And you paid it?”

“Yeah, but then he sent me a letter, saying there’d been a change in the terms, and he needed an investment. In cash. And if I didn’t pay, he’d have to go public with something.”

“And then he wanted more?”

“But it got worse,” McSwain said. “He stopped returning my calls, and meanwhile I’m holding my dick in this lawsuit with Pilka, who has no idea what’s going on. I just wanted to dismiss the damn thing, but if I did, my attorney told me I’d be on the hook for attorney’s fees. Meanwhile, they started blackmailing me again.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Scalzo. You know that video you brought to my office? That video of me with her? That wasn’t the first time I’d seen that. It was mailed to me a few weeks ago along with a note that said to pay ten grand or it would be released in the lawsuit.”