Peter Pan Must Die (21 page)

“To some extent. Only what I remember from college.”

Angelidis leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table.
“Greek tragedy had a simple idea. A great truth: A man’s strength is also his weakness. This is most brilliant. Do you agree?”

“I can see how it could be true.”

“Good. Because this truth is what killed Carl.” He paused, gazing hard into Gurney’s eyes. “You wonder what the hell am I talking about, right?”

Gurney said nothing, took another bite of the fig, held Angelidis’s gaze, and waited.

“A simple thing. A tragic thing. Carl’s great strength was the speed of his mind reaching a conclusion and his willingness to act. You understand what I say? Very fast, no fear. A great strength. A man like that achieves many things, great things. But this strength was also his weakness. Why? Because this great strength has no patience. This strength must eliminate obstruction immediately. You understand?”

“Carl wanted something. Somebody got in his way. What happened then?”

“He decided, of course, to eliminate the obstruction. This was his way.”

“What did he do?”

“I heard that he wanted to put out a contract through a certain individual to have the obstruction eliminated. I tell him he should wait, take smaller steps. I ask if there is anything I can do. I ask this like a father to a son. He tells me no, the problem is outside my … my area of business … and I shouldn’t be involved.”

“You’re telling me he wanted to have someone killed, but not by you?”

“According to the rumor, he went to a man who arranges things like that.”

“Did the man have a name?”

“Gus Gurikos.”

“A professional?”

“A manager. A talent agent. You understand? You tell Fat Gus what you want, you agree on the price, you give him information he needs, he takes it from there. No more problem for you. He manages everything, hires the best talent—you don’t need to know nothing. Better that way. Lot of funny stories about Fat Gus. Someday I tell you.”

Gurney had heard enough funny stories about mob guys to last a
lifetime. “So Carl Spalter paid Fat Gus to hire the appropriate talent to remove someone who got in his way?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“Very interesting, Mr. Angelidis. How does the story end?”

“Carl was too fast. And Fat Gus wasn’t fast enough.”

“Meaning what?”

“Only one thing could have happened. The guy Carl was in such a rush to have removed must have found out about the contract before Gus passed it on to the hitter. And he took action first. Preemptive strike, right? Gets rid of Carl before Carl gets rid of him.”

“What does your friend Gus say about this?”

“Gus don’t say shit. Gus can’t say shit. Gus got hit too—that Friday, same day as Carl.”

This was a big piece of news. “You’re saying the target found out that Carl hired Gus to set up a hit, but before Gus could make it happen, the target turns around and hits them both?”

“You got it. Preemptive strike.”

Gurney nodded slowly. It was certainly a possibility. He took another bite out of the fig.

Angelidis continued with some enthusiasm. “So this makes your job real simple. Just find out who Carl wanted hit, and you got the guy who turned around and hit Carl.”

“Would you have any idea who that might be?”

“No. This is important for you to know. So you listen to me now. What happened to Carl got nothing to do with me. Got nothing to do with my business interests.”

“How do you know that?”

“I knew Carl pretty good. If it was something I could take care of, he would have come to me. Point is, he went to Fat Gus. So it was a personal thing for him, nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with my business.”

“Fat Gus didn’t work for you?”

“Didn’t work for nobody. Fat Gus was independent. Provided services to various customers. Better that way.”

“So you have absolutely no idea who—”

“No idea.” Angelidis gave Gurney a long, straight look. “If knew, I would tell you.”

“Why would you tell me?”

“Whoever hit Carl fucked things up for me. I don’t like when people fuck things up for me. Makes me want to fuck things up for them. You understand?”

Gurney smiled. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, right?”

Angelidis’s expression sharpened. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The question and its intensity surprised him. “It’s a verse from the Bible, a way to achieve justice by matching—”

“I know the fucking saying. But why did you
say
it?”

“You asked me if I understood your desire to get even with whoever killed Carl and Gus.”

He seemed to be thinking about this. “You don’t know nothing about the hit on Gus?”

“No. Why?”

He was silent for several seconds, watching Gurney intently. “Very sick shit. You didn’t hear nothing about that?”

“Zero. Didn’t know the man existed, didn’t know he died.”

Angelidis nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll tell you this, because maybe it helps. There was a Friday-night poker game Gus always held at his house. The Friday Carl got hit, the guys show up, nobody answers the door. They ring, knock. Nobody comes. This never happens. They think maybe Gus is taking a crap. They wait. Ring, knock—no Gus. They try the door. Door’s unlocked. Go in. Find Gus.” He paused, looked like he was tasting something unpleasant. “I don’t like talking about this. It’s sick shit, you know? I believe that all business should be reasonable. Not like this crazy shit.” He shook his head and adjusted the position of some of the dishes on the table. “Gus is sitting in his underwear in front of his TV. Got a nice bottle of retsina on the coffee table, half-full wineglass, a little bread, taramasalata in a bowl. Nice lunch. But …”

“But he was dead?” Gurney prompted.

“Dead? He was real dead. Dead with a fucking four-inch nail hammered into each eye, into each ear, right into his fucking brain, and a fifth one through his fucking throat. Five fucking nails.” He paused, studying Gurney’s face. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m wondering why none of this made it into the news.”

“Organized Crime Task Force.” Angelidis looked like the words were making him want to spit. “OCTF dropped down on it like a pile of shit. No obituary, no funeral notice, no nothing. Kept all the details to themselves. Can you believe that? You know why they keep this stuff secret?”

Gurney wasn’t really being asked a question, so he didn’t answer.

Angelidis sucked loudly at his teeth before continuing. “They keep it secret because it makes them feel like they know something. Like they know
secret shit
nobody else knows. Makes them feel like they got
power
. Got
classified
information. You know what they got? They got shit for brains and toothpicks for dicks.” He glanced at his big gold Rolex and smiled. “Okay? It’s getting late. I hope this helps you.”

“It’s all very interesting. I have one last question.”

“Sure.” Angelidis looked again at his watch.

“How well did you get along with Carl?”

“Beautiful. Like a son to me.”

“No problems?”

“No problems.”

“You weren’t bothered by all those ‘scum of the earth’ speeches he made?”

“Bothered? What do you mean?”

“In press interviews he called people in your line of business the scum of the earth. And a lot of other unpleasant things. How’d you feel about that?”

“Felt it was pretty smart. Good way to get elected.” He pointed at the bowl of olives. “They’re very good. My cousin in Mykonos sends them to me special. Take some home to your wife.”

When Gurney arrived at the end of the mountain road that led to his property, he was surprised to discover a large black SUV parked by the barn. He lowered his window at the mailbox and found that Madeleine had already emptied it. Then he drove slowly over to the shiny Escalade and stopped in front of it.

Its door opened. The man who emerged had the bulky physique of a football lineman. He also had a shaved head, unfriendly bloodshot eyes, and a rictus-like grin. “Mr. Gurney?”

Gurney returned the empty smile. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Mick Klemper. That mean anything to you?”

“CIO on the Spalter case?”

“Right.” He took out his wallet, flipped it open to his Bureau of Criminal Investigation ID. In the younger photo displayed on the laminated card, he looked like mindless muscle for the Irish mob.

“What are you doing here?”

Klemper blinked, the grin wavered. “We need to talk—before this thing you’re involved in gets out of hand.”

“This
thing
I’m involved in?”

“This bullshit with Bincher. Do you
know
about him?”

“Do I know
what
about him?”

“What a scumbag he is?”

Gurney thought about this for a moment. “Did someone send you here, or is this your idea?”

“I’m trying to do you a favor. Can we talk?”

“Sure. Talk.”

“I mean, friendly. Like we’re on the same side of the street.”

The man’s eyes radiated danger. But Gurney’s curiosity outweighed his caution. He turned off the engine and got out of his car. “What do you want to tell me?”

“This Jew lawyer you’re working for, he’s made a career out of smearing cops—you aware of that?” Klemper reeked of mints overlaying a sour miasma of alcohol.

“I’m not working for anybody.”

“That’s not what Bincher said on TV.”

“I’m not responsible for what he said.”

“So the Jew scumbag is lying?”

Gurney smiled, even as he shifted his feet to get into a better position to defend himself physically, if the need arose. “How about we get back to the same side of the street?”

“What?”

“You said you wanted a friendly talk.”

“My friendly point is that Lex Bincher makes money by digging up phony little glitches he can use to keep his slimebag clients on the streets. You ever see his fucking house in Cooperstown? Biggest house on the lake, every cent from drug dealers he kept out of prison with one fucking technicality after another. You know about this shit?”

“I don’t care about Bincher. I care about the Spalter murder case.”

“Okay, good, let’s talk about that. Kay Spalter killed her husband. Shot him in the fucking head. She was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Kay Spalter is a lying, murdering cunt, doing the time she deserves. Except now your slimy little Jew friend Bincher is trying to spring her on procedural—”

Gurney interrupted him. “Klemper? Do me a favor. I’m not interested in your Jew problems. You want to talk about the Spalter case, talk.”

There was a flash of hatred on the man’s face, and for a moment Gurney thought their confrontation was about to become brutally simple. He closed his right hand into a fist out of Klemper’s line of sight and adjusted his balance. But Klemper just produced an empty smile and shook his head. “Okay. What I’m telling you is this. There’s no way she should walk on a fucking technicality. With your background,
you should know better. Why the hell are you trying to spring a piece of garbage?”

Gurney shrugged, asked matter-of-factly, “Did you notice the problem with the light pole?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The light pole that made a clear shot from the apartment impossible.”

If Klemper had intended to pretend ignorance, his thoughtful delay now made that position untenable. “It wasn’t impossible. It happened.”

“How?”

“Easy—if the victim wasn’t in the exact spot where some witnesses said he was, and if the weapon wasn’t fired from the exact spot where it was found.”

“You mean if Carl was at least ten feet away from where everyone saw him get hit, and if the shooter was standing on a ladder?”

“It’s possible.”

“What happened to the ladder?”

“Maybe she stood on a chair.”

“To make a five-hundred-yard head shot? With a five-pound tripod dangling from the gun?”

“Who the hell knows? Fact is, Kay Spalter was seen in the building—in that apartment. We have an eyewitness. We have dust impressions in her small shoe size in that apartment. We have gunpowder residue in that apartment.” He paused, gave Gurney a shrewd look. “Who the hell told you there was a five-pound tripod?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is you’ve got contradictions in your shooting scenario. Is that why you got rid of the electronics store video?”

Again Klemper’s hesitation was a second too long. “What video?”

Gurney ignored the question. “Finding a piece of evidence that doesn’t fit your concept means your concept is wrong. Getting rid of the evidence tends to create a bigger problem down the road—like the one you have now. What was on the video?”

Klemper didn’t answer. His jaw muscles were tightening visibly.

Gurney went on. “Let me take a wild guess. The video showed
Carl getting hit standing in a spot that couldn’t possibly work with the line of sight from the apartment. Am I right?”

Klemper said nothing.

“And there’s another little snag. The shooter was seen casing that apartment building three days
before
Mary Spalter died.”

Klemper blinked but said nothing.

Gurney continued. “The person your trial witness identified as Kay Spalter was actually a man, according to a second witness. And that same man was also captured on video in Mary Spalter’s community a couple of hours before she turned up dead.”

“Where’s all this crap coming from?”

Gurney ignored the question. “Looks like the shooter was a hired pro with a double contract. On the mother and son. Any thoughts about that, Mick?”

That set off a twitch in Klemper’s cheek. He turned away and paced slowly across the open space in front of the barn. When he reached the mailbox at the side of the road he stared for a while in the direction of the pond, then turned around and paced back.

He stopped in front of Gurney. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think none of this means a fucking thing. One witness says it was a woman, another says it was a man. Happens all the time. Eyewitnesses make mistakes, contradict one another. So what? Big deal. Freddie ID’d the bitch wife in a lineup. Some other little coke-head skell didn’t. So what? There’s probably somebody else in that slum dump who thinks the bitch was a space alien. So fucking what? Somebody thinks they saw the same person somewhere else. Maybe they’re full of shit. But let’s say they’re right. Did you happen to turn up the fact that Kay, the bitch wife, hated her mother-in-law even more than she hated the husband she topped? Didn’t know that, did you? So maybe what we should’ve done was send the fucking bitch up for two murders instead of one.” Pasty saliva was accumulating at the corners of Klemper’s mouth.