Chapter 18 – Debate

Click

The back door of the house shut behind her as she muttered to herself, “What were you thinking?”

Tessa had changed; choosing what she considered appropriate attire for a late night visit to jail - ignoring the mess that constituted as someone’s idea of repacking her suitcase back in New York. In long sleeves and matching denims, she walked towards the taxi. It pulled up at the house right on cue.

Sliding across the seat, Tessa tossed the driver an address for the police station that was closest to her own apartment.

“Yes ma’am,” the driver responded. After giving her barely enough time to shut the door, he pulled away from the curb, went down a couple of streets and then took the freeway onramp.

She remembered a piece of advice from her brother, “Never gamble with something you’re not willing to lose,” he’d warned, only two days before he was killed. Giving her head a shake, Tessa leaned back against the seat and considered her actions. Nope, there was nothing she regretted. She was a girl with a plan and it was just best to leave Scott asleep on the couch.

Given the hour, there was a surprising amount of traffic at the precinct. All windows were lit and one car sped off with its lights flashing as her cab pulled up outside of the three story building.

The driver asked, “Need me to wait?”

“No thanks,” she said, opening her purse and finding the correct change for the fare.

“Hope you work out the trouble.”

“Hum?” Tessa mumbled, then realized that her arrival at this hour could be construed as many things.

“If you need to bail someone out, Harrison’s Bail Bonds is around the corner.”

Although the idea wasn’t far from her mind, she didn’t feel the need to go into any detail with the stranger. “Thanks for the tip.” With a smile she slid out and walked towards the building.

Her boots made small clicking sounds against the pavement and the desk Sergeant looked up as she entered. Tessa introduced herself and asked if Detective Blaine was still on duty.

No sooner was her query uttered when the man himself spotted her and came forward. “Contessa Morgano, it is a pleasure once again,” he said smugly.

“Morgan. I go by Morgan now.”

“Forgive me,” he responded, though the confident swagger remained. “I assume you’re here about your apartment?”

“Yes. I…uh…came right here.”

“Where have you been?”

It seemed like the bustle in the station paused, everyone awaiting her answer. Even the phone’s stopped ringing. “New York.”

“I see. Maybe we should go to my desk and we’ll talk more,” Detective Blaine waved an arm in the direction he wanted, and then allowed her to proceed him down the hallway. As they walked he added, “There was a call from your security company. We responded, but a person can do a great deal of damage in five minutes.”

“Define damage.”

“Fire. We were able to contain the flames to the bedroom.”

“Suspects?”

“We’ve arrested Gino Perelli Jr. for arson.”

Although she’d seen him cuffed at the scene, shock rather than anger stung her. “Can I see him?”

Detective Blaine motioned for her to take a seat in the wooden chair across from his desk. A series of personal photographs of his family sailing and at Navy Pier filled one corner near the window. “I wouldn’t advise it,” he said as he took his own chair. “Your neighbor identified him as one of two men who she met in the hall, about 24 hours before we picked him up. Any idea what he might have been looking for then – or last night?”

Even with this new evidence, it didn’t completely erase years of family tradition. “G.J. is a friend of mine.” Her voice trailed off in confusion. “Did he say anything?”

Blaine shook his head. He tapped a pencil on the desk. “He’s been quiet. Hasn’t even made his phone call.”

Scott may have had a point, about G.J. being safest off the streets and G.J. apparently wasn’t broadcasting his location.

As though the officer read her thoughts, he brought up Scott. “Where is Mr. Crawford?”

“Sleeping I suppose.” Tessa ran a finger over one stack of files on the detective’s desk. “Anything new on Darla Perelli’s death? If I’m going to call G.J.’s family and fill them in I’d like to have the latest.”

“Originally we were thinking murder, but it’s looking more like an overdose. Her arms were riddled with needle marks.”

“She was held for a couple months. Maybe they were sedating her to keep her quiet.”

“We didn’t find any evidence of captivity. No ligature marks on her wrists. ”

“Darla didn’t do drugs.”

“Oh?” Blaine looked at Tessa with renewed interest. “Just how close are you to the Perelli family?”

“Close enough to know she wasn’t into that scene. Is that where it ends? Nothing more to do?”

Blaine didn’t answer right away. Tessa pressed, “Darla wasn’t the only woman to disappearear. What about Kate Russo?”

“She died in Wisconsin. Outside my jurisdiction.”

“Yeah, but you knew enough to mention her to Scott. You saw the pattern with her family background and occupation.”

“Mr. Crawford thought it unrelated.”

“Still have the file?”

“Maybe.” His lips pursed together looking uncomfortable with his own thoughts. Brows rose then narrowed.

Frustration fluttered in her gut. She had no problem reducing grown men to tears during an interview, at times pinpointing the right buttons to hit and extracting a confession from her cornered victim and yet Tessa couldn’t draw a useable shred from this man.

She asked, “Dislike the press?”

The detective didn’t smile. “I was the one who investigated the Sun Times scandal. Apparently free press isn’t quite free. Distrust – rather than dislike – would be the word I would choose.”

“Not all of us are painted with the same brush.”

“Spoken like a true patriot.”

“The file?”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then pawed through the papers on his desk to retrieve a manila folder. Inside was information on Kate Russo and how her car, a black Mustang, had turned up in Lake Michigan. Reported missing two days prior, her body was in the trunk rather than behind the wheel.

“Her face…” Tessa whispered.

“Yeah, not a pretty sight.”

Tessa looked up and remembered who she was speaking with. She barely stopped the admission that the woman was familiar. She let him believe she was simply horrified by the evidence of her brutal death. Tessa cleared her throat. “Needle marks?”

“I believe there were two punctures on her left arm. Given that she was submerged in water, drowning was the cause of death. The punctures could have been from something in the trunk.”

“Interesting,” she flipped through the pages a second time, “Kenosha is what, 50 miles from here?”

“Give or take.”

“It's still considered part of Chicago.”

“True.”

“Suspects?”

He stared at her. “Considering how interested you are, you tell me. It wouldn’t surprise me if you have a better idea that I.”

“Doesn’t feel like a mob hit.”

“True.”

Only one person from Kenosha had come into her path the last few days. She didn’t offer Barton Malone’s name. Perhaps, like Scott, she was reluctant to jump to any conclusions on the councilman based only on a man’s former address. Did uptight politicians murder to protect themselves? Somehow she didn’t think so.

“Could be someone was just moving the body around, changing jurisdictions as you said, to hide the link with the other women.”

“And that link would be?”

Tessa looked away, and spent a moment quietly contemplating the photographs on his desk. “Cute kids.”

Blaine’s eyes narrowed. “Your theory doesn’t hold since the other waitresses died in New York at the Locust Street address where we found Darla Perelli.” He seemed pleased to offer the details. “I got a call from Detective Marcy Finch last night; she had some bodies – also ran into you and Crawford – made sense to match the dental records I had for every mob flunky in Chicago.”

“How tidy.”

“Finch told me you were at the scene.”

“So I was.”

“How’d you get the address?”

“We were just driving through, seeing the sites.”

“In Harlem?”

She bluffed, “I got a source to protect.”

“And you ask why I don’t like the press,” he hissed through thin lips.

Shutting the file she handed it back to the detective. “I want to see G.J."

“Nope. Against protocol. You’ll have to wait until he posts bail, and like I said before I wouldn’t advise it.”

“I like to live dangerously.”

“So I’ve heard.” He tossed the file on his desk where it joined others unopened.

“What if I refuse to press charges?”

“It’s not up to you.”

“Was he the only one you picked up?”

There was a minor hesitation – enough to be noticeable. The detective stood and walked to her side of the desk. She rose from her chair, understanding that she was about to be shown the door.

Walking together, he added, “Funny you should mention that, there was a man seen running from the scene.”

Tessa recalled Ms. Wagner mentioning that her ‘brothers had dropped by’ before she’d left for New York, and Blaine seemed to figure there was more than one person involved last night. But who?

She chewed her lower lip.

“Something you’d like to tell me, Ms. Morgan? You’ve been shot at; someone tried to burn down your condo….”

A shrug was her response.

“Nice knowing you,” he finished sarcastically.

Pausing at the entrance, Tessa forced a smirk to her lips, and extended her hand to shake. “I’ll be fine detective. I’m probably safer on the street than standing here talking to you.”

With her back to him, she walked on toward the door, but she was sure she heard the officer mutter, “Don’t count on it.”

~**~

“Tessa?” Scott called down the hallway of the small house. Silence was the only reply. He’d looked everywhere, even the bathroom. It bothered him that she’d run off and not even left him a note. “So much for trust.”

Had she ignored his advice and gone to St. Joseph’s? God, he hoped not.

Grumbling to himself, he picked up the items from Marlayna’s purse, shoving the contents back into the bag. It took only a minute to complete the task of tidying up the dining room and fluffing the pillows.

Tessa wasn’t back yet.

He could wait of course; delude himself that she went for cannoli. With a sigh, he went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was off and empty. He found a coffee maker but no beans. Underneath the sink there were adequate cleaning supplies, but nothing else of interest.

Reaching out to swipe at the light switch, something on the calendar, which hung from a pin on the wall nearby, caught his eye. It still sported December of last year, like his sister hadn’t had the heart to change much of anything from the way Dante had left it that fatal week he’d traveled to New York. The twelve, the seventeen and the nineteen were circled. But something other than the date flashed from the scribbled on the chart underneath the shinny picture of a collectable sports car. Scrawled in the margin, was a curious note, ‘Call Lane. Ask for Judge.’

The backwards ‘e’ at the end did not go unnoticed. But as quick as the idea was capable of being thought, Scott dismissed it. Dante was dead – he couldn’t possibly have drafted the note left on his window, or the postcard. And if he was in the habit of writing the letter that way, surely Tessa would have remembered.

Scott’s finger reached forward and tapped the calendar, his mind racing with possibilities. E was the fifth letter of the alphabet. Morgano had mentioned five families. They were expecting five victims….but there were only four in December. Scott scratched his head, knowing he was reading too much into a simple letter.

He scanned the page looking for clues. Call Lane? Marlayna? “That would mean they knew each other.” Perhaps the possibility wasn’t so farfetched since Marlayna seemed to be involved with his father, Don.

Forcing himself to move away, Scott turned off the kitchen light and went back to the living room. With a hefty sigh he sat back down on the couch. Within arm’s reach was Marlayna’s purse. Since he had nothing better to do, he pulled out the business card with ‘Ask for Judge’ written on the back.

Black tie limo…

It seemed like a legitimate company, but he’d never used them.

The phone rang. Not Dante’s but the one that belonged to Marlayna. As though the person on the other line could see him, Scott avoided touching the phone, craning his neck until he could see the caller’s phone number. It was from the New York Post. He knew the number.

Two rings, three. Before it could go to voice mail, Scott picked up. “Hey Babe. How are you doing?”

A woman’s voice didn’t immediately answer. He figured it’d take her a second to control her anger. “You stole my purse,” Marlayna hissed.

“Actually…” He started to explain and then changed his mind. “What will you give for it back?”

“Don’t mess with me. Where are you?”

“Chicago. Your boyfriend put me on a plane - remember. Would have been nice if you mentioned him before – save me some time with obscure sources.”

“I won’t discuss my personal life over a public line.”

Interesting choice of words. Made him wonder if the phone was bugged. “What should we discuss then?”

He blinked at the sound of a dial tone in his ears. Apparently ‘nothing’ was her answer. With a frown, Scott looked at the phone confirming that indeed she’d hung up on him, before he set it back on the coffee table.

The silence was a bit daunting. Tessa had not turned on the heater so the air was cool, adding to his sense of loneliness. He rubbed his arms and stood, suddenly nervous about the short phone call and the fact that he’d turned on the lights in the abandoned house. Scott reached and turned off the lamp next to him. The drapes were still drawn, but he wondered who might be watching.

Moving away from the front room, Scott walked down the hall to Dante’s bedroom. The quilt was rumpled, but the bed was still made. He opened a closet, flipped through the clothing and shoes. Tessa’s overnight bag was stored neatly. Without even hesitating, he pulled it forward, unzipped the black leather case and looked at the ravaged contents. Not only were the clothes haphazardly stored, but the lining was ripped.

“Wait a minute,” Scott mumbled to himself. His own bag showed far less signs of a thorough search. And it was Tessa’s room that had been given the once over in New York. Her apartment they wished to burglarize.

He stood. Hands on hips he gave the room another quick glance. On the nightstand the bible remained open. The reference from Judges on display. ‘.. behold, he did not open the doors of the roof chamber. Therefore they took the key and opened them, and behold, their master had fallen to the floor dead...’

A sudden thought occurred to him. He nearly ran down the hall, and dumped the contents of Marlayna’s purse on the couch, vigorously shaking until all the items fell out. Two keys. Car keys. Mustang keys. Snatching them up he went back to the kitchen and looked at the entries on the calendar. “Not black tie limo, black convertible.”

The tiny fact that a woman had been murdered and shoved in the trunk of a black Mustang convertible now made twisted sense. Slapping his forehead, he swore, “It’s not Tessa they want. It’s the keys, and Dante’s car.”