Sinner's Ball (5 page)

“It's been going on for some time, and all the girls are scared shitless. Afraid to work. Same thing happened to Gloria.”

“Did you go to the cops?”

“Like they would give a shit?”

Against my better judgment, I gave her my card.

“If he bothers you again, let me know. Old times' sake.”

She jammed the card into her coat pocket.

“About Dave's problem,” Dawn said. “There's an outfit you might want to check out.”

“Who?”

“No one,” Rickie said, glaring at her.

Dawn ignored him.

“Is there a problem?” I said.

“He worries about me. That's all. Anyway, I went to them a while ago. It didn't work out.”

“Why's that?”

She shrugged. “It just wasn't right for me.”

Apparently, that's about all I was going to get.

“OK.”

“It's a foundation, or some shit like that. Called Another Chance. Works with girls trying to get out of the life. Run by Martine Toussaint, an ex-hooker. Haitian. You may know her.”

“Doesn't ring a bell. But she's proof there's life after prostitution. Something to think about.”

“Please skip the sermon.”

“You're right. Another Chance,” I said. “I'll look into it.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“Don't mention my name. Martine and I didn't get along. Bad feelings on both sides.”

Seemed to be a lot of that going around.

I
was on my way to Feeney's when Luce called.

“We got lucky with one of the vics in the basement,” she said.

“Dental records?”

“Better. Guy had a pacemaker. We tracked the serial number to the hospital, and the doc who did the surgery.”

“And?”

“Led us to Martin Donnelly. Wife was interviewed.”

“Anything useful?”

“Not really. I spoke to the detectives who met with her. Basic stuff. He was an insurance agent. Loving husband. Coached Little League.”

“Sounds like a wonderful guy. But not much.”

“Their hearts weren't in it, Jackson.”

“Mind if I have a go?”

“Be my guest.”

•   •   •

T
he Donnellys lived in a stately Tudor in the hilly Fieldstone section of the Bronx. Fieldstone was an odd little community filled with judges, politicians, and heavy-duty money, which disavowed all connection to the city, and especially to The Bronx.

I rang the bell.

A few seconds later, Helen Donnelly answered the door with a drink in her hand. She seemed a bit unsteady.

“My name is Steeg,” I said, handing her my card. “I'm investigating your husband's murder. Could I have …?”

She barely glanced at the card before slamming the door in my face.

Not a surprising reaction when someone who looks like me shows up on your doorstep.

I rang the bell.

“Mrs. Donnelly? All I need is a few minutes of your time.”

Her voice drifted out from behind the door.

“I've already spoken with the police. Piss off!”

“I know you have.”

“Then stop bothering me.”

I rang the bell again.

It was time to appeal to her softer side.

“An innocent man may go down for his murder.”

“Why should I give a damn?”

At this point, most people would have either stopped talking or called the police. But Mrs. Donnelly kept the conversation going. No doubt about it, I was making headway.

“Because it's my brother.”

There was silence. As it dragged on, the more my prospects dimmed.

Then she said, “You're still there, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“And you're not going away.”

“Nope.”

“Persistent son of a bitch. Do you drink, Mr. Steeg?”

“Used to.”

“Socially, or vocationally?”

“The latter.”

“Me too. And still at it. Screw the twelve-step tango.”

The door swung open. “What the hell,” she said. “Come on in. Could use the company.”

First time alcoholism ever worked for me
, I thought.

Helen Donnelly was a tall, attractive woman in her early forties. The little makeup she wore was expertly applied.

She led me to an L-shaped sofa in the living room, ordered me to sit, and perched herself two cushions away. A half-empty bottle of Cristal sat on the coffee table.

“Tell me again,” she said, refilling her glass. “What's your interest in Martin's death?”

Her cheeks were boozy pink, but her speech was tight and controlled.

“I'm a private investigator. My brother's been accused of your husband's death. Wrongfully, I believe.”

She emptied her glass. “The police said they had a suspect.” Her lips curled into a wry smile. “Thought it would comfort me.”

“Does it?”

She smoothed the front of her pearl gray silk blouse.

“Remains to be seen. So, if the police think your brother is guilty, why do you believe otherwise?”

“Ownership of a warehouse is not de facto evidence of murder. And it's the only thing they have that links him to the crime.”

She considered that for a moment.

“Is he a good man?” she finally said.

“Yes, though not without faults.”

She looked out at the patio. A bird with a dark body and gray belly snacked at a feeder.

“Our faults too often define us,” she said, with a resigned shake of her head. “What can I tell you that I haven't shared with the detectives?”

“Sometimes a second telling provides more information. Let's talk about Martin.”

Her fingers toyed with a tiny gold crucifix that hung from a thin chain around her neck.

“His death was the most dramatic event of his life.”

She caught the surprise in my eyes.

“Not what you expected from the grieving widow, was it?”

Not by a long shot.

“Well, Mr. Steeg, you were honest with me. I'm returning the favor. If your brother is truly innocent, his conviction would be the only sad outcome of this mess.”

“Why do you say that?”

“My husband was an unusual man. And not in a good way.”

“How so?”

“Except for the Little League team his agency sponsored, Martin was a man of negligible passion, fewer interests, and no friends.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

She took a healthy shot of Cristal and smacked her lips. “The man was barely socialized. In or out of bed.”

“Did you mention this to the detectives?”

“They never asked. Look, our marriage was like two ships passing in the night. Martin had his life, and I had mine. Connections were few and far between.”

“Any children?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Why do you say that?”

She didn't answer. Instead, her gaze wandered back out to the terrace. The bird was gone.

“Were there other women?”

A faintly bitter smile played on her lips.

She got up from the sofa. “I'm very tired, Mr. Steeg,” she said. “I hope you got what you came for.”

I sensed I had something, but I wasn't sure exactly what.

N
ick D'Amico sat at one end of the bar drinking coffee from a chipped mug. A woman sat at the other end of the bar working her way through eggs over easy and hash browns. She looked vaguely familiar.

I sidled up to Nick and took a seat on a stool.

“What're the chances of getting something to eat?” I said

“Zip, unless you want to cook it yourself.”

“What's the problem?”

“Julio, the stickup artist masquerading as my cook, got busted again.”

“So? It isn't the first time. Call his brother.”

“He's in the slam too. Something about playing fast and loose with an ice pick. Guy owed him some money and he got tired of waiting.”

“Anyone else in the family knows how to work a griddle?”

“The better question is whether anyone else in the family knows how to work.”

I jerked my chin in the direction of the woman at the end of the bar.

“Where'd she get her meal?”

“I ordered in,” Nick said. “You want something, the deli is two doors up.”

“Why does she rate?”

“Another sad story in a neighborhood filled with them. Name's Stella Tedesco. You probably know her daughter, Jenny Tyler.”

“The actress?”

“That's the one. Mostly a bit player who got lucky. A featured role in a movie with Nicholson last year. Critics said she was great. I thought she sucked. But what do I know? Anyway, Stella has been supporting Jenny and her bum boyfriends for years. Ran through all her money. And now when the daughter is about to make it big, she doesn't even know her. Should've drowned her at birth.”

“Compassion isn't your style.”

“Nothing to do with it. My kids ain't gonna let no senior citizen residence suck away what's left of my money.”

“You're being paranoid.”

“Really? They want to know where my will is stashed. Where I got the safety deposit boxes. The whole megillah.”

“Maybe they're just being prudent.”

“Yeah? Well they ain't gonna get shit. Let 'em work for it like I did.” He glanced over at Stella Tedesco. “She never asked for nothing, and what did it get her?”

“A meal on you.”

“Fuck it!” he said. “What're you doing here so early?”

“The boiler died again. So I figured I'd come here for some warmth and good feelings.”

“One out of two ain't bad.”

“What's going on with my brother? I haven't heard from him in a few days.”

“He's back to being a fucking hermit. But Anthony is another story. Strutting around like the cock of the walk. Him and that mope Tommy Cisco. The Masters of Crime. Every time you look at them, they're huddled together hatching schemes.” He made a face. “Those two couldn't plan a decent purse snatch.”

“Maybe Dave figures that Anthony'll bring some advanced business techniques gleaned from the Ivy League.”

“Yeah, that'll work.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

The door swung open. My nephew and Tommy Cisco blew in on the breeze.

“My day is complete,” Nick said. “Bonnie and Clyde are in the house.”

“Hey, Uncle Jake, how're you doing?” Anthony said. A big smile was pasted to his face.

I called his smile with a glare.

“In the pink,” I said.

“Glad I found you. Tommy here would like to straighten things out between you. You know, no bad blood going forward.”

I turned to Cisco. Just over the bridge of his nose he had a large purple welt like a third eye, encircled by a pretty pale blue corona.

He held out his hand.

I ignored it.

“Listen, Steeg. I was a little out of line the other day, and I just want you to know there're no hard feelings.”

“Am I supposed to give a shit?”

It wasn't the answer he was expecting. His hand sort of drifted down to his thigh.

“Now,” I said, “do me a favor and take a walk while I talk to my nephew.”

Cisco threw Anthony a look like he was asking permission.

“It's OK, Tommy,” Anthony said. “This won't take long.”

Cisco nodded and did a slow amble toward the front. When he reached the door, I grabbed a handful of Anthony's coat and drag-walked him to the kitchen.

“What's your
problem?”
he said, rearranging his clothes.

“Cut the Tony Soprano act. It doesn't fit. What the hell is going on with you?”

His face reddened.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm the one guy who actually gives a shit what happens to you.”

“You're forgetting about my father.”

“He's too busy worrying about
his
future to give a shit about yours.”

“You don't know shit. He loves me.”

“I'll give you that,” I said. “But he's got an odd way of showing it.”

He poked a finger in my chest, and his face twisted into a threat. “Don't you fuckin' criticize him! And don't you ever put your hands on me again.”

This wasn't the kid I helped raise. The boy I considered my son. Anthony was turning into my brother.

“Right now he needs me,” he said.

“When it comes to his business, your father doesn't need anyone.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he said, turning to go.

“Have you spoken to your mother?”

He stopped and turned around.

His voice was icy. “She had her shot, and left. He needed her and she walked.”

“Maybe she needed him and your father came up short.”

“Screw you!” he said.

I reached for him. To throw my arms around him and tell him I understood what he was going through. Tell him not to let my brother screw up his life the way Dominic screwed up Dave's.

“Anthony …”

I never saw it coming.

There wasn't any pain. Just a shock that started high up on my temple and traveled down to my knees, driving me to the ground.

When I was able to focus, I saw Anthony standing over me. His face was contorted with rage.

“I warned you,” he said. “Don't you ever put your hands on me again.”

A
nother Chance was housed in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. A low, wrought iron fence topped with artichoke finials bounded two tiny snow-covered gardens on either side of the stairway.

At the entrance, a small black sign with white letters instructed me to ring the bell.

I did. A few moments later the door opened. Two burly guys with buzz cuts—one a few inches taller than the other—greeted me.

“What can I do for you?” the taller one said. The skin on his face was steroid-tight.