Unknown Remains (8 page)

FOURTEEN

Duane Cobb stopped at a diner before he got on the road and had meatloaf, fried potatoes, gravy, and a side of creamed corn, mixing everything together. He thought about Vicki, couldn't believe she was dead. Vincent had called and told him. There was a small one-column story in the
New York Times
with a picture of Vicki on page eighteen of the main news section. The headline said: “Waitress Murdered in Greenwich Village Apartment.” The article went on to say: “Police discovered the body of Victoria Ross after a neighbor in the building noticed blood under the door. The victim had been shot, in what appeared to be an execution-style killing. NYPD Homicide are investigating.”

Cobb remembered the night he met her, stood outside her apartment, and followed Vicki to a SoHo bar. He ordered a 7 and 7, watching guys hit on this sultry brunette with a knockout body, looked like she could suck the chrome off a bumper with those lips, and she drank Guinness.

Cobb walked up to her. “If I said you had a great body, would you hold it against me?

She smiled. “Not bad.”

“Stick around, I've got more.”

“I'll bet you do.”

“I'm Duane, by the way.”

“Duane By-the-way, huh? That's an unusual name.”

He grinned. “What do you do when you're not being a smart-ass, tempting guys in bars?”

“I'm an aspiring actress working as a waitress, waiting to be discovered.”

“Is that right? Well this might be your lucky night.”

“Why's that, 'cause I just met you?”

She hoisted the pint of Guinness and got a foam mustache on her upper lip. Cobb would've paid serious money to lick off, but she wiped it with a bar napkin.

She said, “What's your claim to fame?”

“I'm still working on it.”

He liked the girl giving him a hard time, getting in his face. “You say you're an actress, huh? What have I seen you in?”

“A McDonald's commercial. I'm sitting at a table with another girl, we're smiling at a hot-looking guy eating a Big Mac.”

“That was you?”

She grinned. “Come on, you don't remember that, do you?”

“Course I do. Can I have your autograph?” He took a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Sign this, will you?” He slid a drink napkin across the bar top to her. She looked at him, smiled, and signed her name in flowing blue script. He picked up the napkin, studying the signature. “Okay, I give up.”

“Vicki Ross.” Smiling as she said it.

Cobb sipped his 7 and 7. “Well, Vicki Ross, I might have a job for you.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting.” He paused for effect. “Think of it as the biggest, most important role of your life.”

She placed her pint of Guinness on the bar and gave him a skeptical look. “Are you serious?”

Cobb looked her in the eye and said, “Like a heart attack.”

“What do I have to do?” Vicki said, giving him her full attention.

“Get close to a rich guy, make him fall in love with you.”

“Why?”

“So he'll assume your debt.”

“Why would he do that?” She picked up her Guinness and took a sip.

“'Cause he won't be able to help himself, won't be able to resist you.”

“So you work for the Italians, huh?”

“You're a little genius, aren't you? Figured it out without any help whatsoever. I'm impressed.”

“I'm going to pay back what I owe.”

“We're all aware of that and very appreciative. But it looks like you need some help, and that's why I'm here. How good an actress are you?”

“Good, I think.” She paused. “Who's the rich guy? Is he married?”

“What difference does it make?” Cobb didn't have a specific rich guy in mind. All he had was a vague idea how it might work.

“I don't date married men.”

“You won't be dating. You'll be acting, playing a part, remember?” Cobb sipped his 7 and 7. “What was your last starring role?”

“
Oklahoma
. It's a play.”

“
Oklahoma
, no kidding. That was the Broadway version, I'll bet.”

Vicki grinned. “Yeah, right.”

Cobb had heard of it, but had no idea what the story was about. “What character were you?”

“Laurey Williams,” she said with a big grin. “I was the lead.”

“Well, of course you were.”

“She was an independent woman of the times.”

“That's what you are living in New York City in the New Millennium.”

“Laurey, if you recall, marries Curly McLain, a cowboy.”

“This fella you're gonna meet is a cowboy too, a Wall Street cowboy.”

He stopped talking and looked at her. “This sound like something you can handle?”

Her eyes fluttered, and she picked up the Guinness and drank. She made a face. “What if I don't want to do it?”

“I urge you to, or you're gonna be paying the debt back in another way.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“We'll keep you in a room and have you entertain gentlemen for the next five years. What's that, thirty, forty guys a week, one hundred and twenty-five or so a month?”

Vicki looked nervous, afraid, for the first time, and Cobb believed he'd finally gotten through to her.

Two days later
,
Cobb took Vicki to Ulysses, a Wall Street hangout. She'd worn a skirt and had her hair up, moving through the packed room full of Wall Street hard-ons in their outfits, confident rich assholes wearing fancy suspenders under their jackets, and shirts that had different-color collars and cuffs, every eye in the place on Vicki Ross.

Cobb stood off to the side, watching guys hit on Vic, come up and deliver their best lines. She'd look, smile, and keep going. He saw groups of Wall Streeters staring at her, following her as she moved through the room, and then, like he'd planned it, she was talking to a good-looking guy at a cocktail table. The guy signaled a waiter, bought her a drink, and looked like he was hooked.

An hour and a couple drinks later, they walked out of the bar together and got in a cab. Cobb followed them in another cab to a bar called McSorley's, one of the oldest pubs in the city.

Cobb entered the loud, crowded room but kept his distance, had a peach schnapps at the far side of the bar, watching the guy and Vicki having a good time. A little after ten, Vicki and the guy walked outside, he kissed her on the cheek. She put her arms around him and kissed him hard like the world was gonna end. He looked happy as he got in a taxi and it drove away. Vicki started walking along Seventh Street. Cobb caught up to her and said, “Looked like you had him where you wanted him, but you struck out.”

“You following me now?”

“How'd it go?”

“I gave him my number.” She handed Cobb the guy's business card, Jack McCann. “Said he worked for Sterns and Morrison, Wealth Management Division, as a registered representative.”

“He say he was gonna call?”

“Yeah, but we'll see.”

“What's your success rate with guys?”

Vicki made a face.

“Listen, why don't you come over, we'll get better acquainted, plan your next move.”

“You go ahead, start without me.”

God she was sexy, standing there in a miniskirt and a blue jean jacket, a scarf wrapped around her neck, goosebumps on those long, skinny legs sticking out of a pair of knee-high black boots.

Cobb was a hundred percent positive the guy was going to call her the next day, but he didn't. Didn't call the day after that, either—waited a full week and showed up at the restaurant where she worked, sat in her section, left Vicki a hundred-dollar tip on a fifteen-dollar glass of champagne. Poor guy couldn't help himself was how Cobb viewed the situation, and as it turned out, he was right on the money.

All that had happened about three months before 9/11.

It was dark
driving west on the freeway in light traffic, rush hour long over, to Ridgewood, an upscale Jersey suburb. Joe Sculley, whose number Jack McCann had called the morning of 9/11 after the plane hit, lived on Prospect Street, which curved through the tree-lined neighborhood, stately houses set back. He drove past Sculley's, a big modern place with sweeping roof lines, made a U-turn, and drove by again. It was only nine fifteen, too early to get a closer look at the house, which was partly concealed by trees.

He drove back to the freeway, passed a couple cheap motels, picked one that looked the best, a motor lodge, parked, and checked in to a room that smelled of cigarettes and disinfectant. There were two double
beds. He put his suitcase on one, opened it and took out a sap, a set of picks, a screwdriver, a penlight, and a hunting knife with a six-inch blade. If Jack was in the house, he'd know in a few hours. If Jack wasn't in the house, Cobb would find out where in the hell he was at.

He turned off the light, pulled the spread and blanket down, and stretched out on the bed. The neon motor-lodge sign blinked through a crack in the curtains, casting a shadow on the wall. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

It was after midnight when Duane Cobb awoke. He splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth. He put on black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black fleece jacket. He fit the tools and knife in a money pouch and strapped it around his waist and headed out to the car.

The neighborhood off Prospect Street looked different now. He cut the lights and turned onto Carlisle Terrace, a dead end. He pulled over, turned off the engine, and looked around. The sky was overcast, no moon, no one on the street.

Cobb opened the glove box and took out the Ruger Lc9, eased off the safety, and racked a round into the chamber. He slid the gun in his belt behind his back and covered it with the fleece. He could hear himself breathe. He could hear the muffled sound of the door opening, the swish of leather as he slid out of the car, and the click of the door closing as he leaned his hip into it. Sculley's was three houses north.

He walked through the woods and came out in Sculley's front yard.

The house was dark. Cobb walked along the east side, peeking in windows, seeing the shapes of furniture. He worked his way around to the back and stood on an empty slate patio, looking at the yard that sloped down to a pool with a covering over it. If things went sideways, he'd circle back through the woods to his car.

Cobb turned facing the house now, looking through French doors at the dining room, crouched, took out the penlight, and studied the lock. Took out the pick set, selected one, maneuvered it in the lock, and opened the door. He stepped in and listened, not a sound. He liked the
adrenalin boost he got when he broke into a house, liked the energy, the excitement. “Let's see how good you are, boy.” It's what his dad used to say when they were hunting white tail. Cobb always said it to himself, trying to psych up.

There was a paneled room with a desk. He sat, opening drawers, used the penlight to identify the contents, looked through stacks of envelopes, bank statements, an insurance contract, phone bills—everything in the name Joseph R. Sculley. Cobb found an address book in the second drawer, took it out and opened to M, went down the names till he came to McCann. Jack's cell, office, and home phones were listed, and his address in Darien.

Sculley, it appeared, also had an apartment in the city. Cobb copied the address on a Post-it. He took off the money belt that held the tools, removed the sap and put it in his pocket, and left the belt on the desk.

The living room was thirty feet long with a big fieldstone fireplace at one end. Cobb walked across the room to the stairs and went up, gripping the gun, wood steps creaking under his weight. He should've been nervous, but he wasn't. It was called believing in yourself. For some crazy reason, he liked situations like this, bust in a house, get the lay of the land, and scare the shit out of the occupants. Wake a guy up with a gun pointing at him, see what he'd do. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people went subservient in a nanosecond, did exactly what they were told.

There were four bedrooms. Three of the rooms had beds that were made. In the master, he could see two shapes under the covers of the king-size bed. The man, who had to be Sculley, was snoring. Cobb held the Ruger, moving toward the bed when the phone rang, and God almighty it was loud. He ducked into the bathroom and listened. It rang four times before he heard a man say hello.

And a woman say, “Joe, who's that calling in the middle of the night?”

“The police. They're here.”

“What . . . ?”

Cobb looked out the window and saw a cop car in the driveway, two cops getting out with guns and flashlights. He glanced at the counter where the sinks were and saw a cell phone in a charger. He grabbed it and slipped it in his pocket. Now Sculley came in the bathroom, reaching for the light switch, and Cobb hit him on the side of his face with the sap. Sculley fell back against the wall and went down on the tile floor.

Cobb stepped over him into the bedroom. Sitting up in bed, Sculley's woman screamed like a veteran of horror films. He ran out of the room and down the stairs, looked out the window. One cop was knocking on the front door. He ran through the kitchen to the dining room and saw the second cop coming around the side of the house with a flashlight.

Cobb opened the French doors and ran for the woods, crouching just inside the tree line. Flashlight beams swept over the back of the house, and then the cops started coming in his direction. Cobb moved deeper into the trees and got down as low as he could. The leaves were dry, and if he ran, they'd hear him for sure. He froze as the flashlight beams swept over him.

In a few minutes the cops gave up and went back to the house.

FIFTEEN

Marquis Brown called and asked Mrs. McCann to meet him at the San Marino Equity office in Little Italy, and be sure to bring the contract with her signature on it. “I want to show you something.”

Mrs. McCann arrived by taxi an hour later and called Brown's cell number. He told her to come upstairs. He was standing outside the office as she approached and said, “Did you ask them about Jack?”

Marquis, wearing a Borsalino and a black suit, opened the door, motioned her inside, and watched the look of surprise on her face as she walked in the room and looked at him. “Where'd they go?”

“You say your husband borrowed money. When was this?”

“I didn't say he borrowed money; the Puerto Rican did.”

“The PR say who he worked for?”

“No, he didn't give his name or anyone else's.”

“You bring the contract?”

“I couldn't find it.”

Marquis looked at her like,
that's what I thought you were gonna say
.

She was frustrated. “You think I made this up?”

Yes he did. It was the only reasonable conclusion based on what he knew. “Manager said San Marino moved out more than six months ago.”

“Then they must have an office somewhere else.”

“They don't, nothing listed anyway. I checked.”

“What about my Beretta? If you did the lab analysis, you know it isn't the murder weapon.”

She was changing the subject. Marquis had to hand it to her, she was good. “Gonna take a few more days. We get a lot of homicides in Manhattan.”

“What about the two guys who've been bothering me? Think I made them up too?”

Marquis did, but didn't say it. Her wild eyes held on him. Most bullshitters, in Brown's experience, were nervous and couldn't look at you. This one never looked away, almost made him uncomfortable.

“Are we going to the station to see the mug shots?” Now she was challenging him.

“Is that what you'd like?”

“I thought that's what you wanted me to do. You suggested it.”

Someone with something to hide didn't volunteer to come to the station house. It's the last place a murderer would want to go. So now he was curious. “How'd you get here?”

“Taxi.”

“You can ride with me.” This was good, get her in a situation, throw her off balance, and start asking questions.

They went down to the street and got in his department-issue Chevrolet and drove to Homicide in silence. He escorted Mrs. McCann through the bullpen, the detectives checking her out as she walked by their desks, a sexy woman never failing to attract attention. He took her into one of the rooms they used to question suspects, invited her to sit, asked if she wanted something to drink: water, coffee, a soft drink?

“Got any bourbon?” Mrs. McCann said, straight-faced.

“I think we all out. I'll check the machine.”

Now she grinned. Okay, what was up with this girl? Like she's thinking,
I got nothing to hide and I'm smarter than you, Marquis. Got the chops to bust me?
Challenging him again.

Marquis brought in a laptop and set it up on the desk in front of her.

“You know how to scroll?”

“No, what's that?” she said, looking at him, fucking with him. “Yeah, I know how to scroll.”

“Well, then go to it. See a familiar face, come and get me.”

Marquis walked out and went to his desk, thinking, man, this fine white suburban woman liked bourbon, liked to give him a hard time, get his attention. He could see himself with this girl, wouldn't life be fun?

He picked up the Victoria Ross file and started to read his own investigator's report:

Victoria Emilia Ross

Height: 5' 6" Weight: 117 Hair: Brn Eye Color: Brn

DOB: 6-12-80 SS: 367-54-0229 Age: 21 Sex: F

Police were called to 142 Sullivan Street on a fatal shooting. At the scene and in charge from Homicide Section are Sergeant M. Brown, badge #11978, and Ofc. Jimenez badge #170313.

Murder scene:

The scene takes place inside the deceased's apartment. The apartment building sits on the east side of Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village. The body is resting on an Oriental rug in a pool of coagulated blood. Head north, feet south, mouth open, eyes closed. Single gunshot wound through-and-through. Bullet entered the back of the head and exited through the forehead. Spatter is consistent with single shot to the head. The shooting was fatal. Manner of death was ruled to be homicide. The deceased was pronounced dead at 11:19 pm, September 22, 2001, and conveyed to the Medical Examiner's office. Sergeant M. Brown will testify to his observations.

Victoria Ross had been a beautiful girl, but she wasn't anymore. Marquis studied the gritty reality of the photos, putting himself back at the crime scene. He remembered the wineglass on the coffee table a few feet away. Vicki Ross was dressed like she was going out for the night. No sign of a struggle, which might suggest Vicki Ross knew her
assailant. And there were two bullet holes in the bedroom window, like the shooter was firing at someone on the catwalk, part of the fire escape. He'd talked to everyone, all the tenants on the floor, and the kitchen crew from the restaurant behind the apartment building. Not one person remembered hearing gunshots.

Now his attention went back to Diane McCann. How could this sexy, well-dressed suburban woman murder someone in this manner? His conclusion: she couldn't. His guess, Diane McCann's Beretta was clean, because if she was involved, she hired out to get it done. Maybe the two guys she'd been talking about. They sounded real because they were. They weren't hustling her; they were in on it. But how did she find them? Darien, Connecticut, wasn't the kind of town you'd run into a contract shooter for hire. How could he connect those dots? One thing kept coming back to him, one thing for sure: Mrs. McCann most definitely had motive.

Now he looked at the medical examiner's photographs, close-up detail of the small cylindrical entrance wound that was visible after a rectangle of Vicki Ross's hair on the back of her head had been shaved. The next shot showed the destruction on the opposite side, what the round did, blowing out part of her forehead. The victim's nose and cheek also showed signs of trauma, which could have resulted when she fell forward on the floor. Could also have happened when Vicki Ross opened the door and someone stepped in and hit her with a fist.

One of the evidence techs had dug a bullet frag out of the plaster wall. The frag had been tagged and taken to the lab for analysis. Other than the positive ID of Diane McCann by Victoria Ross's neighbor, none of the other tenants in the building saw or heard anything. The neighbor did respond when Marquis had shown her a photo of Jack McCann. “I used to see him leave Vic's apartment occasionally, in the morning.”

From what Marquis had learned, Victoria Ross was born in Brooklyn, an only child, and her parents had passed, drowned when
their cruise ship capsized off the coast of Malta in 1998. Brown had also talked to Ross's work associates and learned that she had had little or no contact with anyone outside the restaurant. Didn't date any of the waiters, bartenders, managers, busboys, or hostesses.

Once again, Marquis added up what he knew. No one had motive except the wife. No one was even close.

Diane had been in the room a little over an hour when Marquis returned and sat across the table from her. “See anyone looks familiar?”

“I think this is one of them.” She turned the laptop toward him and pointed to a mugshot. “His name's Ruben Diaz. I looked at hundreds of photos of murderers, armed robbers, and rapists—black guys, white guys, Asians, and Latinos—before I recognized him.”

Marquis was watching her pale skin get red as she got into it, seeing her as a good-looking woman: the blonde hair tied in a ponytail, the slim white neck, the small nose and those lips had some plumpness to 'em. “He's kind of handsome in this photograph.”

“It was taken in 1979, when he was arrested for assault. You know who he is? Ruben Diaz, a former middleweight, a journeyman. Tough guy. Why would Ruben be coming after you?”

“He works for San Marino.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don't believe a thing I say, do you?”

He didn't confirm or deny, and his blank gaze held on her for a time.

“You tell me you went to Vicki Ross's apartment, and a few hours later, she was found shot to death. You tell me there was a contract with your signature from San Marino Equity, but you can't find it and the company doesn't seem to exist. You tell me two men have been harassing you, and now you point out one of them, a former prizefighter. You understand why I'm having trouble with all of this?”

“A former prizefighter with a record.”

“That was more than twenty years ago.”

“My husband was killed in a terrorist attack. I found out he was having an affair. I found out he spent most of our savings and borrowed a lot of money, and you're blaming me?” She glared at him. “This is unbelievable. Listen, I didn't shoot Vicki Ross. Everything else was out of my control. I'm the victim. Do you hear me? Am I getting through to you?”

He didn't say anything, and now she got up and walked out of the room.

Marquis wanted to arrest Mrs. McCann, he was so sure she did it, and if ballistics confirmed her gun was the murder weapon, he'd be able to. But as it was, he didn't have anything that'd hold up. Marquis was thinking about this as he drove to the poker club where Vicki Ross had worked. He talked to Vincent Gallo, trying to ascertain some information. The interview went like this:

       
M
ARQUIS
: Know who killed Vicki Ross?

       
(Gallo shook his head.)

       
M
ARQUIS
: That don't cut it. Got to say something verbally.

       
G
ALLO
: You tell me.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Vicki worked for you and so forth.

       
G
ALLO
: Uh-huh.

       
M
ARQUIS
: In what capacity?

       
G
ALLO
: I don't understand the question.

       
M
ARQUIS
: What did she do for you?

       
G
ALLO
: She was a dealer.

       
M
ARQUIS
: A dealer, huh? That unusual, a young girl dealing?

       
G
ALLO
: Vicki knew cards.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Anyone have a problem with her?

       
G
ALLO
: What do you mean?

       
M
ARQUIS
: Somebody she worked with?

       
G
ALLO
: Everybody liked her.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Customer ever get pissed off, she didn't deal the right cards?

       
G
ALLO
: Not that I saw.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Well somebody did. (He paused.) How long have Duane Cobb and Ruben Diaz worked for you?

       
G
ALLO
: Never heard a them.

       
M
ARQUIS
: They don't work for you?

       
G
ALLO
: No.

       
M
ARQUIS
: Tell me about Jack McCann.

       
G
ALLO
: Who's Jack McCann?

That was the end of it.