Killer Cannoli (A Terrified Detective Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

“Sorry, traffic was awful and I got stuck at a train crossing. What do you have for me?”

He reached inside his pocket, then stopped. One of his eyebrows went up. “First, is this part of that freebee you’ve got me doing?”

I bowed my head and tried to look remorseful. The truth was, I couldn’t pay him. Not now, anyway.

When I didn’t answer, he flicked one more toothpick into the trash can. Without looking at me, he asked, “How’s Lena holding up?”

“Surprisingly well. She may even go back to
Cannoli’s
today, if the police let her.” I cocked my head. “Why?”

He cleared his throat and for a second I thought I saw a trace of uncertainty cloud his face. It vanished when he said, “I thought maybe I’d see if she’d like to go out, maybe bowling.”

“What’s that got to do with me and the information you found?”

He ran his tongue around his gums. “Just thought you could put in a good word for me.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist. This potential pairing didn’t sit well with me, although Ed was looking more and more like one of the good guys. “I don’t know, Ed.”

He pushed his shirt sleeves up. “Claire, nothing up my sleeves. I just think Lena and me could share some time together. You may not realize it, but she is one fine looking woman and I, for one, would enjoy her company.”

I liked it better when Ed complained that I could only pay him $17.95 per bit of information. At least then I didn’t feel like I’d put a family member on the auction block. I released a sigh of resignation. The information I’d get was to help Aunt Lena and, after all, she did have the right of refusal to go out with him. I gave in and agreed to ask my aunt if she’d be interested in getting to know Ed better. I just didn’t promise when I’d do it.

He grinned like his favorite girl agreed to go to prom with him. Then he pulled out an old photo and handed it to me. “A buddy of mine from Jersey had this. Talked him into loaning it to me.”

I held it with both hands. There were three men in the picture, each with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Larry aka Joey, Albert Valcone, and another man I didn’t recognize. I noticed a shadow in the corner of the photo that could have been a fourth person, but I couldn’t be sure. “Do you see another person?” I handed it back to Ed.

He squinted, but then shook his head. He did fill me in on the three who were the focus of the picture. “Guy in the middle with the paunch and bad comb-over is Michael Bucanetti. On the right is a local boy, fashion-plate Albert Valcone. Sure looks like they were all good pals.”

The time stamp showed that the picture had been taken two years ago. “I met Albert Valcone yesterday.”

Ed’s eyes got big. “And you lived to tell the tale?”

“Yeah, I met him and his
compadres
, but I didn’t get any information. Corrigan interrupted.”

Ed’s face fell, but he laughed. “Could be, he saved your life. And we know Valcone is an associate of Michael Bucanetti. That can’t be a coincidence.”

 “I agree. But did Bucanetti outsource to Valcone and why would he want Joey dead, anyway? If Joey had something on Bucanetti, where is it?” I snapped my fingers. “Whatever it was, they didn’t find it on him or they wouldn’t have tried to break into
Cannoli’s
again.”

Ed checked his watch. “Hate to interrupt the brainstorming, but my break is over. Talk to you later.” He headed toward Triton’s entrance then turned around. “But you know, the cops searched
Cannoli’s
and I bet both the cops and the bad guys searched the dead guy’s place. Corrigan’s acting like they found zilch. So maybe Joey stashed it in a safety deposit box.”

My brain lit up like a Christmas tree. Realizing how little I knew, the lights dimmed. If Joey had a safety deposit box, who had the key?

Chapter Eight

I
sat at my office computer and listed everything I knew about Joey Corozza’s murder, what was it that got him killed and what he did with it. I added potential killers. There wasn’t much there. I drummed my fingers on my desk, thinking, but the only idea I could come up with was going over what my aunt knew. It was early enough that she was probably still at my dad’s. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even found out when she could open
Cannoli’s
again.

When she answered my call, she sounded out of breath. “Claire, I’m glad it’s you. Detective Corrigan notified me that the police tape is gone. They don’t need to traipse through
Cannoli’s
anymore. So I can open up.”

I asked, “Are you sure you want to go back there so soon?”

“The bills don’t pay themselves.”

 “Is Dad going with you, then?”

“We’re both already here. But I need you too.”

 “You still don’t feel safe?” I supposed I could bring my gun.

She sighed. “I’m worried, but hey, I’ve got to get back on the horse sometime, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Anyway, Angie’s on her way too. Honest, the cops left everything such a mess. Can you help us clean?”

I let out a breath. This wasn’t how I expected to help her, but she was family and at least I wasn’t afraid of getting my hands dirty. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Gino would probably tell me to keep my nose clean, not a restaurant. He was sunning himself in Miami, though, and I’d never tell him this was how I had spent my time.

Besides, while I tidied things up, I could snoop around. Maybe the cops and whoever broke in missed what Joey was killed over.

Bob took his time starting up. When I got to
Cannoli’s
, Angie was already there scrubbing tables, while my dad swabbed the long glass counter. She saw me first, straightened and massaged her lower back. “Am I happy to see you! Lena’s been a slave driver. Not that she doesn’t need to be. They left this place a freakin’ mess.”

My father nodded. “Hey, pumpkin. Go see if you can talk some sense into your aunt. She wants to open this evening.”

I scanned the dining area. Bags of trash sat in the corner. Large and small amoeba-like stains still dotted the floor despite the eye-watering aroma of bleach. I could swear the shadow of Joey’s slumped-over body hovered at the table where he was found. Despite telling myself that impression was only because I knew what had occurred here just a few days earlier, a chill went through me.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to her.” I wondered if the crowd she’d get on opening day would be here for the wonderful pastries, or to support my aunt, or to take a selfie by the table where Joey died.

“Good. Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.” My father then made his way to the infamous table, got a grip on two of its edges, and spread his legs, ready to lift. When I looked at him with a question on my face, he explained, “Your aunt can’t stand to have this table where Joey, I mean Larry, died. So it goes out with the garbage.”

I shook my head and marched into the kitchen and tapped Aunt Lena on the shoulder. “Hi.”

Aunt Lena jumped and the pastry bag in her hands squirted a bit of custard onto the counter. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve realized you’d be jumpy your first time back.”

She sighed. “Yeah. But anyway, it’s good you’re here.”  She waved the pastry bag in my direction. “Take over. My hands are too shaky to do a good job.” Her chin quivered and her free hand slammed onto the counter.

I hugged her as her body shook with silent sobs. She wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I keep thinking about that night...” She pulled away and shook it off. “I’ll be fine. Just need to keep busy.”

“Don’t you think trying to open this evening is just a little too ambitious? I mean, wouldn’t tomorrow be better? By then, we’ll have the pastry shelves full and maybe you’ll feel better.”

Aunt Lena rubbed her face hard. “I’ll only feel better when they catch Larry’s murderer.” She glanced down at the éclairs. “But tomorrow will be a better day. Go tell your father and Angie to come in and get an éclair. You too. Eat. You got no hips.”

We ate, cleaned, and ate some more. After a lot of grunts, groans and overused muscles,
Cannoli’s
looked as pristine as if ready for its maiden opening. Angie was calling her son to tell him she would be home soon when I checked the time.

If I didn’t hustle, I wouldn’t be able to track down Mark Wyatt’s whereabouts for his wife. I snatched my sweater and, hustling toward the door yelled, “I’ve got to get going. Love you all.”

I turned the ignition on Bob. He screeched, shimmied and coughed, but he didn’t start. No matter whether I cursed or cajoled, he refused to run. I slammed his door and marched back inside. “Dad, I hate to ask, but I need to use your car. Angie, could you give Dad and Aunt Lena a lift home?”

Angie nodded, “Sure. But first I gotta pick up Rose’s kids and take them to their father’s. Then I can take,” she glanced at Dad and my aunt, “you both home.”

My dad scowled. “That piece of junk won’t start?  I keep telling you—”

I held up my hand in a traffic cop pose. “Please Dad, no time for a lecture. I have a stakeout tonight and if I don’t leave now I won’t make it. Please, can I use your car?” I felt like a teenager.

He crossed his arms. “I just got it detailed, new tires and front end alignment. You’re not taking it on any high speed chases, are you?”

“Dad, I’ve never had to do a high speed chase.  Honestly, stakeouts are boring. I just sit there and wait for someone to do something.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he said, “Okay. Afterwards come pick me up and we’ll see about your car.”

Angie left the room to get her purse and Aunt Lena whispered, “Frank, we gotta go with Claire. Five minutes with Angie’s grandkids gives me
agita
.”

“What? Lena, we can’t —”

My aunt gave him what I call ‘the glare.’

“Okay, but everybody wears their seatbelt.”

I checked the time. “Whoever’s coming with me, we’ve got to leave
now
.”

We piled into my dad’s car. He insisted he drive.

Chapter Nine

I
spotted Mark Wyatt walking out the door of the machinery shop where he worked. “Okay, Dad, when he gets in his car we follow him. Not close, we don’t want to tip him off.”

“Honey, I know what to do. I’ve watched those police shows.”

Wyatt’s car rolled out onto the street and we weren’t far behind. I had to admit, my dad did a great job tailing him. We followed our subject into Brooklyn Heights and finally stopped at a 1950’s-looking one-story building called Sparkles. A sandwich poster board proclaimed tonight as ladies’ night.

Wyatt got out of his car and pulled out an overnight bag. He scanned the parking lot and went in the place’s back door.

“Now what?” my father asked.

“We wait and see what happens next.” I took my camera from under the front seat. “If nothing does, we go in.”

Another guy pulled up, took out a knapsack and went through the same door Wyatt had.

“That what you’re looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

Aunt Lena leaned forward and rested her arms on the back of the front seat. “Somebody told me something about this place. But I don’t remember what it was.”

My dad asked, “Who told it to you? Maybe that’ll help you remember.”

“It was that lady that always gets her hair done with Josie. You know her, Claire. Big nose. Nice personality, though.”

My dad looked up toward the sky, but didn’t say anything.

Within a few minutes the parking lot starting filling up, mostly with clusters of women who went in through the front door, where a guy with a laughable comb-over checked IDs.

I realized we wouldn’t get any information sitting in the car. “I’m going in.”

My aunt put her hand on my shoulder. “Wait. Me too. That way you won’t look conspicuous by yourself.” 

My dad huffed, “I’m not waiting in the car while you two gallivant off.” 

Great.
I was probably the only PI whose father comes along on a stakeout. I had to do this. “Fine, but both of you, please do not say a word, no matter what.”

We waited in the short entry line. When we got to the front, the guy checked my ID and then asked to see Aunt Lena’s. She giggled and handed it to him. But when my dad started to pull out his, the guy said, “Don’t need to check yours, Sir.”

My father ushered us into a large open room with plenty of round tables and chairs cramped together, all facing a stage. A young woman, wearing more makeup than I thought possible, came up to us. “Three?” When we nodded, she smiled. “You two ladies are short like me, so I’m going to seat you at a front table so you can see.” Just then the music started, so loud the tune was distorted. The heavy beat was beating up my eardrums.

I shouted, “We really don’t want a front table. How about something in the back?”

She cupped her ear to hear me but then shook her head. “Sorry. Those are all reserved back there. I can seat you behind the front row, though.”

She sat us at a cramped table, told us someone would be over to take our order and disappeared. Although we were in the second row, we were still less than six feet from the stage. I scanned the dim room but didn’t see the subject.

Three boisterous women, who looked to be in their thirties, took the table next to us. One leaned over and gushed to my dad, “You’re so cute bringing your wife and daughter here. I wish my father was as open-minded.”

My father muttered back, “I wish my daughter wasn’t.”

The place filled up quickly. Still no Mark Wyatt. With a two drink minimum for each of us, I nursed a glass of sour-tasting wine. My dad and Aunt Lena both had beers.

I was about to get up to powder my nose and do some Wyatt spotting when the lights went down and a good-looking, buff guy came out on the stage to hoots and whistles from the audience. He smiled and bowed. “Ladies…” he looked down at my dad. “And gentleman.”

The audience roared and the announcer bounced his hands up and down to mean ‘quiet.’

“We have a great show tonight for all you horny gals or guy. First up is Fun in the Dark with Mark.”