Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (23 page)

“No,” I said. “He told you in good faith that he'd supply proof of ownership, you didn't try to sell them, and you agreed to cooperate with the police the moment I approached you. I don't think you're in any legal danger at all. All the cops want is for you to tell them exactly what you told me yesterday and maybe repeat it in court if Delahunt is dumb enough to plead innocent.”

“Oh, I will,” he assured me. “My wife has been urging me to go to the police even before you showed up yesterday.” He paused. “I am an honest man, Mr. Paxton.”

“Eli,” I corrected him. “And I'm sure you're an honest man. You're just working in an industry that occasionally attracts dishonest men.”

“I'm sure you deal with them every day,” said Mela.

“I'm sure we all do,” I answered. “The trick is spotting them.”

“You know,” said Mela, “I've been selling the occasional piece to Mr. Delahunt for years. He always paid on the spot, he had a fine reputation, offices all over Cincinnati as well as the big one right across the street here, a lovely wife. What makes a man like that become a criminal?”

“A fine reputation is no substitute for a fine mind when the economy goes south,” I answered. “As for his lovely wife, if he drops dead tomorrow she'll be the first to dance on his grave.”

He shook his head. “I don't understand it. I've been married to my Teresa for thirty-one years, and in my eyes she grows more beautiful every day. Why do so many men my age turn their backs on their wives and have tawdry affairs with young women?”

“They get the women's youth and beauty, at least temporarily,” I answered. “And one way or another the women get a piece of their fortune, usually permanently.”

“And what do the wives get?”

“A good lawyer, if they're smart,” I said.

He sighed deeply. “I suppose so, though that's a very cynical answer. But it's not fair.”

“You think it's not fair
now
, you should have seen it before there were community property laws and pre-nup contracts,” I said with a smile.

“Surely you don't have one with your wife,” said Mela.

“I didn't have one even when I was married,” I answered.

“You're divorced?” he said. “I didn't . . . I meant no insult.”

“Different situation,” I said. “She left
before
I had any money.” I felt a rueful smile cross my face. “Hell, I still don't have any.”

“What will happen to Mr. Delahunt?” he asked suddenly.

I shrugged. “If he cops a plea and behaves himself in jail, I suppose he could be out in fifteen years or so, if he lives that long. If he fights it and it goes to trial and he's found guilty, it's up to the jury. A case like this, given that the victim had ties with organized crime, I would think the death penalty's out of the question, but I could see him getting life, with or without parole if it's first degree—and given the circumstances, it's pretty hard to see the prosecution agreeing on second-degree or manslaughter.”

“You really think so?” he asked.

I nodded and patted the velvet box where it lay on the table. “This'll do the trick. Before yesterday, we didn't even have him on a catnapping charge.”

“It's hard to believe that he actually had all these diamonds strapped around a cat's neck.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I just wish he had nine more like it.”

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Private joke.”

“Well,” said Mela, “I suppose we should be going.”

I checked my watch. It was one-thirty.

“Yeah,” I said. “We'll be about fifteen minutes early, but it beats the hell out of being late. He knows I'm bringing you and the diamonds in. If 2:05 rolls around and I'm not there, he'll be sending out search parties.”

“So we have fifteen minutes?” he said.

“Right.”

“Then let me waste five of them,” he said, walking back to the safe and opening it. A few seconds later he pulled out a bottle and a couple of gorgeous crystal goblets.

“Napoleon brandy,” he said, filling the two goblets. “To celebrate the end of this incident.”

I picked up my goblet and sniffed the brandy. It smelled like any other brandy, but I'm no connoisseur. “To your very good health, Orestes,” I said, holding it up.

“And to yours, Eli,” he replied, and we clicked the goblets together and each took a swallow.

“Well?” he said, looking at me anxiously. “What do you think of it?”

“It went down smooth as silk,” I said. “I could make a habit of this stuff.”

“I save it for special occasions,” he said. “Knowing that I'm on the same side as the police qualifies as special, given some of the fears I've been living with for the past week.”

We drained the goblets, and I checked my watch again.

“Twenty to,” I said. “We'd better go.”

He nodded his agreement, put the goblets in a small sink, shut and locked the safe, and led the way to the front door.

As we walked out to the sidewalk, a shot rang out. Mela screamed, grabbed his shoulder, and slammed back into the door, sliding down to the ground.

“Hit the dirt, Eli!” yelled Sorrentino as half a dozen more shots whizzed by.

26.

I dove to the sidewalk just as I heard an agonized scream off to my left. I turned my head just in time to see a geyser of blood spurting out of “Mr. Smith's” neck.

“Damn!” grunted Sorrentino. I looked in the other direction and saw Sorrentino clutching his chest as blood seeped out through his fingers.

I got up and surveyed the carnage around me. The Bolivian was lying stock-still, covered with blood, but it wasn't gushing anymore. Mela was on his knees, and I could see he'd been shot in the arm. I checked; it was the fleshy part. It would hurt like hell, but there was nothing broken.

“I'll be right back,” I told him, and raced over to Sorrentino as I heard the sound of approaching sirens.

“There'll be an ambulance here in a minute,” I told him. “Just hang on.”

“The Bolivian?” he grated.

“Dead.”

“Good,” he said, and lost consciousness.

I went back to Mela. “You okay?” I asked.

“Really just a scratch,” he said. “I fell down from surprise, not pain. I'll be all right.” He looked at Sorrentino and the Bolivian sprawled out, blood-soaked, and motionless on the ground. “Are there any more of them, or is that it?”

“That's it,” I assured him as a cop car pulled up.

Two cops got out of the car, guns in hands. “You!” he yelled at me. “Facedown on the ground, hands behind your head!”

I did as he ordered. He turned to his partner. “Call an ambulance.” Then he reconsidered. “Make it two. And some backup.” He leaned over me and snapped a pair of cuffs around my wrists. “What the hell's going on here?”

“I'm a private investigator,” I said. “My license is in my wallet, and you can check on me with Jim Simmons or Bill Calhoun in Cincinnati Police Headquarters. I'm working on a case.” I nodded my head toward the Bolivian. “That one is a killer. This one—” I indicated Sorrentino “—saved us and needs medical attention pretty damned quick. And this man—” I nodded toward Mela “—is Orestes Mela, the owner of this jewelry shop. He's who the killer was after, and he's going to need medical attention too.”

The other cop examined the Bolivian. “This one's dead.”

An ambulance pulled up and quickly placed Sorrentino onto a stretcher, attached him to an IV and oxygen, and loaded him into the vehicle. The backup police car arrived as they were doing it.

“This guy's in a bad way,” said one of the medics. He turned to Mela. “You can wait. There's another ambulance on the way, but we've got to get this man into surgery quick.”

Mela nodded. “Go. I'll be all right.”

The ambulance was racing off ten seconds later, and as it turned the corner another one pulled up, checked with the cops, helped Mela into the back, and drove away.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“St. Elizabeth,” answered a cop. “They're closest, and they've got a trauma center.”

“It's damned uncomfortable, lying on my stomach. Can I get up now?”

“Yeah,” said the cop, helping me to my feet. “Slowly and carefully.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Okay,” said the cop. “We'll wait for someone to scoop up the body and take it to the morgue, and then we're going to have a long talk down at the station.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” I said.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“Have Lieutenant Jim Simmons of the Cincinnati police notified about what happened here. He's waiting in his office for me to bring the jeweler in.”

“The jeweler?” he repeated. “He's behind all this?”

I shook my head. “No . . . but he's got information on a murder that took place a week ago on the other side of the river.”

“And this guy's the killer?” he asked, nudging the corpse with his toe.

“No. He's a hitter, but he didn't commit the murder in Cincinnati.”

He peered at the Bolivian. “Looks like just another Mexican enforcer. We're getting our share of them these days. Maybe we ought to legalize drugs, the way they did out in . . . I don't know, Utah, was it?”

“Colorado,” I told him. “And this guy's not Mexican.”

He peered at the corpse. “Oh?”

“Bolivian. And definitely a killer.”

“If he wasn't before, he will be by tomorrow,” said the cop. “I don't think your friend will make it to midnight.”

A truck pulled up and carted the corpse off to the morgue, and then the cops drove me to the local station.

“What the hell was this all about?” asked the second cop when we were all seated in an interrogation room.

“It's complicated,” I said.

“We've got time.”

“Okay,” I said. “There's a murder investigation going on across the river. Turns out that Mr. Mela was sitting on the motive. I was just taking him to police headquarters to turn over the evidence and make a statement, which ought to be enough to bring our man to court.”

“The evidence?”

“Three diamonds,” I said, since the hospital was going to find them anyway. “They're in a black velvet box in his coat pocket.”

I stopped speaking, and after maybe twenty seconds one of the cops said, “What else?”

“It gets really complex,” I said. “Our suspect killed a former mafioso and stole some diamonds. What he didn't know was that the mafioso had stolen them, or their equivalent, from a Bolivian drug cartel, which sent three hitters here to get them back. Two of the hitters have been deported. The dead man was the third.”

“Hard to imagine that Mela would handle hot diamonds,” said another cop. “He's got a helluva reputation as a decent, honest man.”

“He deserves the reputation,” I said. “He didn't know they were hot. That's why he was coming with me—to hand the diamonds over and make a statement.”

They queried me for another hour and a half, going over the details again and again, looking for anything that didn't jibe, that didn't agree with what I'd said before. Finally, another cop came into the room.

“Okay,” he announced. “I've spoken to Lieutenant Simmons, and he confirms as much of your story as he
can
confirm.”

“Thanks for believing me,” I said as I got to my feet.

He smiled. “Officially we're just giving you enough rope to hang yourself,” he said. “But unofficially, I recognized your name from your license. I read about you and how you solved that Trojan colt thing the last time you paid our state a visit.” He reached out and shook my hand. “I hope you get your man.”

I signed a few more forms. Then one of the cops drove me back to my car and told me the quickest way to get to St. Elizabeth's. I probably broke a couple of speed laws getting there, pulled into the lot, then entered the building and asked for Sorrentino at the desk.

“I'm sorry,” said the receptionist. “We don't have a Valentine Sorrentino here.”

“He was just admitted into the emergency room a couple of hours ago,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, pulling up some other list on her computer. Suddenly she frowned. “Yes, we have Mr. Sorrentino here. He's in intensive care.”

“So he's alive!” I said. “That's a relief. How do I get to intensive care from here?”

“His condition is grave,” she said, still looking at the screen. “I'm afraid he's not allowed any visitors.”

“Fuck that!” I snapped. “He's my friend, and I want to see him!”

“Don't use such language on me!” she snapped back. “And you can't see him.”

I flashed my trusty detective's license. “I
have
to speak to him,” I said. “And if I have to arrest you for obstructing justice, I'm prepared to do so, and I hope you've got a good lawyer.”

And like a hundred others who saw the license and couldn't tell the difference between detective and cop, she gave in, had her machine print up some kind of pass that would let me in to Sorrentino's room, and got an attendant to lead me there.

I opened the door and walked in. Sorrentino was lying there, his eyes shut, bandages all the hell over his chest, a bunch of tubes running into him, with one going up his nose. A young blonde nurse was reading the dials or screens or whatever on some machine he was hooked up to.

“I've got to talk to him,” I told her.

She looked at the pass and nodded her assent. “Three minutes,” she said, walking to the door. “No more.”

Then she was out in the corridor, closing the door behind her, and I was alone with Sorrentino.

“How did the surgery go?” I asked.

He almost grinned. “How the hell do I know?” he half-whispered. “I slept through the whole thing.”