Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite (2 page)

“What can I do for you, Mr. da Silva?” I asked. “You can find a killer. That is what you can do for me.” He spoke softly, with a slight formality, his voice close to a monotone. And there was a barely perceptible Italian accent.

“Whose killer?”

“Somebody shot my good friend—my
protégé,
Mrs. Shapiro.”

“Call me Desiree—please.”

He nodded. “Shot up his face so badly, I have been told, that he no longer resembled a human being.”

“I’m sorry—very sorry—about your friend. But what about the police? I’m sure they—”

“I have no faith in their ability. Listen, Desiree, Frankie Vincent lived in Riverton, New Jersey. It is not a very large town, so they do not have much of a police force. Not that I have any confidence in the police here in Manhattan, either. Or any place else, if you want to know the truth.”

Maybe it was the expression on his face or maybe it was the look in his gray eyes—which with this pronouncement had turned cold enough to give you hypothermia—but there was something very unsettling about this da Silva. Even frightening. Then it hit me.
Of course! He’s that New Jersey mobster!
I shivered.
Oh, Christ! This, I need. And why would someone like da Silva come to someone like me for help, anyway?

Apparently the man could read minds. “I am not foolish enough to put one of those big-name private detectives on this, however. All of them swear to you they will be handling things themselves. Then they have their flunkies do the work. And under those circumstances, I would have no idea of the quality of the investigation I would be getting.”

“Who referred you to me?” I asked through parched lips, my mouth having gone bone dry the instant I became aware of the identity of my visitor.

“One of my”—he hesitated for a moment, and I had the impression he was searching for an acceptable term—“business associates contacted an acquaintance of his—an attorney—for a recommendation. Gilbert is the attorney’s name.”

“
Elliot
Gilbert?”

“That sounds right.”

Elliot Gilbert is one of the partners in Gilbert and Sullivan (don’t you love that name?), the firm that rents me my office space. And he’s probably the straightest person you’d ever meet. So I had absolutely no doubt that he was unaware as to who actually wanted this recommendation.

“Gilbert told my associate he could not do any better than you. According to him, you are the best. And my associate informs me that this Gilbert should know.”

I might have gone so far as to blush at these words of praise—if da Silva hadn’t immediately followed them with the kicker: “Also, my associate was led to believe that you have the time to do what I require. Which is to devote yourself exclusively to this investigation—to finding Frankie’s murderer.”

Thanks a heap, Elliot!
This was really demeaning—the business about my having that much time, I’m talking about. And it certainly didn’t help that it was true—at present, anyhow. For an instant I bristled. Then I realized that there was something a lot more critical than my ego to be concerned about here. If I didn’t want this cold-eyed mobster as a client, I’d better convince him right now that Elliot was off target regarding my availability.

“Uh, about my being free to handle this for you,” I began, “I just accepted a big case from an insurance company, and I—”

“Get someone else to take care of the insurance company.”

Funny. The quiet, even voice that until a couple of minutes ago I’d regarded as rather pleasant now sounded positively menacing to me, all the more so for its lack of inflection. “I’m a one-person agency,” I managed to croak.

“Have you ever heard of subcontracting? Farm the thing out,” da Silva ordered, his tone still not much above a whisper. “Listen, someone murdered a friend of mine. And nobody harms my friends without paying the price for it. Do you understand this?”

And then obviously misreading the expression on my face—which must have been a reflection of my anxiety in general—he added, “But there is no cause for you to worry. I have no intention of dealing with Frankie’s killer myself. I assure you that this will be left to the courts. You see, while my close relationship with Frankie was not generally known, enough people were aware of it so that I would immediately be suspect if anything were to happen to his murderer. For this reason, among others, to take any action myself—or even to authorize that any action be taken on my behalf—well, this would be extremely foolish. And you will find, Desiree, that I am not a foolish man.”

I like to think that if I weren’t in such a state just then, I would have realized on my own that there was a possibility da Silva might look to avenge Vincent’s death. At least, I hope I would have. This much I
did
recognize, however: Whatever genuine grief he was feeling, da Silva also regarded Frankie Vincent’s murder as a personal affront. And that could spell real trouble for me if I agreed to conduct this investigation. After all, who knew how he’d react if I failed to come up with the killer? Uh-uh. There was no way I was going to get involved in this. I inhaled deeply to calm myself (it didn’t help), then tried again. “Mr. da Silva, I’m really sorry. But I made a commitment, and I—”

“I am sure you can work something out,” he responded with a perfunctory wave of his hand. “In the meantime, I suppose I should tell you a little bit about Frankie Vincent—the victim. He was young, not much past thirty-four years old, and he was a chiropractor. But not your average chiropractor. Frankie was a healer. I swear to you, the boy could perform miracles. Are you following me so far?”

“Yes.” I mean, what was there to follow?

“I always had terrible problems with my back,” da Silva continued. “I must have been to every top man in the country, anyone who was mentioned as possibly being able to do me some good. And I am not only speaking about chiropractors, either. I saw orthopedists and osteopaths. I went for acupuncture three separate times. I even tried one of those holistic quacks. I had to travel all the way to L.A. to see him, too. Then someone told me about Frankie. He said Frankie had done wonders for him. Well, at this point I was fed up with running all over the place and getting no results. But after thinking about it, I figured, what do I have to lose? This was the smartest decision I ever made in my life.”

“Frankie helped you?”

“He saved me.”

“When was all of this?”

“More than three years ago. And I have been a different person ever since that boy put those healing hands of his on me. Oh, sure, once in a while the back still acts up—nothing major, just a few twinges. A visit to Frankie, though, and I am one hundred percent again.” There was a lengthy pause, then da Silva murmured ruefully, “I should have used the past tense there, shouldn’t I?”

“Uh, yes. I suppose so.”

“At any rate, I was very grateful to Frankie, and I sent him a couple of patients. He called to thank me, and we got to talking, and after that we began having dinner together occasionally. Pretty soon we were doing it on a more frequent basis. Over the years I really got to know Frankie Vincent, and I became extremely fond of him. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t mind if I smoke, Desiree,” da Silva was kind enough to inform me now—just prior to removing a silver cigarette case and lighter from his inside breast pocket.

Well, I did mind. In my minuscule office with its single small window sealed up tight, this is not at all a healthful practice. But I was too intimidated by the man to voice an objection. “I’m afraid I don’t have an ashtray, Mr. da Silva,” was the best I could do, in the vain hope this might discourage him.

“There is no problem,” da Silva responded, lighting up and then turning over this small glass dish on my desk to relieve it of about a dozen paper clips and a few rubber bands.
Voilà!
He had his ashtray.

He took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling slowly and filling every last inch of space in my impossibly close quarters with thick, eye-stinging smoke. For a moment I could barely make out his face—although he was sitting not much more than two feet away from me. And breathing from here on in was no picnic, either.

A few seconds later he resumed his narrative. “At any rate, one night Frankie and I were at dinner—he used to like this place in Little Italy—and in the course of our conversation he casually mentioned that the greatest satisfaction he could have in life would be to serve his country. For the first time I became aware of his interest in holding public office. I said to him, ‘Is this really what you want?’ He told me that yes, it was. But he was concerned that unlike most politicians he had no legal background. I said never mind about that. If he was sincere about this, I would make it happen. I told him to leave everything to me. Had he lived, Frankie would have been a senator one day—I am talking about a
United States
senator. Maybe even president. Trust me, I could have delivered.”

“I’m sure you could,” I responded. But, of course, it was just to be agreeable. Da Silva might have his connections, but Vito da Silva a
president
-maker? Come on!

“He was already on his way, too. I saw to it he was given a shot at the New Jersey State Assembly last year. There was never any hope of his winning that one—the Republican incumbent was pretty much of a shoo-in, which is why nobody else was anxious to go up against him. But winning wasn’t the purpose of Frankie’s running. I regarded it as an opportunity for him to get his feet wet, to get himself known. All that he needed to do was to make a respectable showing. Well, the fact is, he did a great deal better than anyone expected he would. With the exception of yours truly.”

And then, for the first time, da Silva smiled. It was a decidedly smug smile, I should add. “At any rate, even though he lost, neither Frankie nor I was too disappointed. He got to attend many lavish functions, where he made valuable contacts. And he thoroughly enjoyed himself, too. But what really mattered is that after this election the party regarded Frankie as a vote-getter, a definite up-and-comer. He was being groomed to run in the Democratic primary for Congress two years from now, Desiree. And he had already begun to receive a little media exposure. You may have seen him on television recently. Only three or four weeks ago he was on this panel, talking about reducing automobile insurance in our state. It was on Channel 13.” Da Silva glanced at me inquiringly as he took another long pull on his cigarette.

“I’m afraid I missed it,” I was able to manage—right before I started hacking away.

Da Silva sat there quietly, hands folded in his lap, until the cough subsided. Once he could be reasonably certain my struggle for oxygen wouldn’t be disrupting his monologue, he went on. “That TV appearance gave the women voters a chance to get a good look at Frankie. Which would not have hurt his prospects at all. In case I haven’t mentioned it, this was a very handsome boy.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, now he can never reap the benefits of any of these things.”

He looked so grief stricken at this juncture that I almost reached out to pat the well-padded shoulder—but just in time I remembered who the shoulder belonged to.

“I suppose you want to hear how Frankie was murdered,” da Silva said then.

That’s what you think
sprang to my lips. But, naturally, it never passed them. Instead I answered, “Yes, of course.” Mealy-mouthed coward that I am, I was postponing the moment of truth—the time when I’d have to make it unmistakably and irrevocably clear to this man that I was not going to be accepting any assignment from him.

“Frankie was murdered across the street from his office the night before last, as he was leaving for home,” da Silva informed me. “At first, the word was that the shooting occurred during a robbery attempt. A woman who was out walking her dog witnessed the entire episode, including the killer bending over Frankie and starting to relieve him of his valuables. I do not know that he actually took anything, however, because she screamed and frightened him off.”

“You said that
at first
it was believed Frankie died during a robbery attempt.” I couldn’t help it. My curiosity had been aroused.

“That’s right. Now it appears that it was supposed to
seem
as if robbery was the motive. But it was not.”

“You sound pretty positive of that.”

“I am. The woman gave the police a description of the car, the one the killer drove off in. And yesterday someone who works in that neighborhood came forward with the information that this same car—a tan 1986 Toyota Camry—had been parked opposite the building for hours.”

“I don’t quite—”

“And there was a man in it.”

It was a couple of seconds before this registered. “So you think whoever did this was lying in wait for Frankie?”

“Don’t you?”

“It looks that way. Any idea who might have wanted Frankie dead?”

“No.” Da Silva had three quick, short puffs of his cigarette, then purposefully ground it out in the makeshift ashtray. The intensity with which he applied himself to the task gave me the impression he was taking out his pain on the stub—or maybe it was serving as a momentary stand-in for Frankie’s killer. Anyhow, following this he looked over at me, frowning. “That is, not really. Frankie and Sheila—his wife—well, the fact is, they did not have a very happy marriage. But Sheila was in Europe two days ago. Of course, there is always the possibility that she had someone else dispose of her unwanted husband. It is also a possibility, however, that she had nothing at all to do with Frankie’s death. I will leave it to you to find out the truth.”

And now there was no more postponing it. “Uh, Mr. da Silva,” I protested, “I wish I
could
help you, but—”

“You can. And you will.” I was speculating about whether I was being threatened—it certainly sounded like it—but da Silva spoke again before I could make up my mind. “I have already had a talk with the mayor of Riverton. He has seen to it that you will be provided with whatever you need at the station house—it is best if you work out of there—and he has assured me that the police will cooperate fully with you. Naturally, my name is to be kept out of this.” Reaching into his pants pocket now, he removed his wallet, extracting what I assumed was a business card. Then he helped himself to a pen from my desktop and made some notations on the card before handing it to me. “If you should have reason to speak with me, you can contact me at either of those numbers. Otherwise, I will be in touch with you. I assume you have no objection to giving me your home telephone number.”