The Pastor’s Daughter: Episode XX

I read many Shakespeare’s plays during my high school days. One of the characters in his plays, the one called Cicero, once said that Nature has planted in our minds an insatiable desire to see the truth. My insatiable desire at this point is to finish this Brittany’s case and, perhaps, take a short vacation. Unfortunately, the case is getting tougher everyday.

By the time I reached my apartment, I had mapped out in my mind what I was going to tell Reverend Waters. I told myself that my best plan would be to be as simple as I can in my explanations. This is because there were angles to this Brittany business that had to be investigated before I could even think of giving Reverend Waters a gimmer of the truth.

I left the Mercedes convertible outside the building and hastily climbed the staircase to my apartment. As I was walking down the hallway, I saw a figure of a man loitering outside my front door. I almost had a heart attack when I recognized the short, broad-shouldered  shape of Lieutenant Ludlum.

He turned at the sound of my footfalls and gave me a look I didn’t like. It was a long stare that was meant to be scary and succeeded in being scary.

“Hello Lieutenant,” I said. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long, have you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I just got here. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

I fetched out my key, opened the front door and stood aside.

“Come on in.”

He walked into my sitting room very slowly, you know, in measured steps. The way he walked in reminded me of how an undertaker walks into the room where a body is laid out. Now, here’s the funny part: when he moved in, he placed himself with his back to the window. I knew he  did that to make sure that if I faced him, the full light from the window would fall on my face. As a precaution, I decided I will not give him that advantage. So I went over to my desk that stood in a corner out of the light and sat down, making him turn to face me.

“What’s on your mind Lieutenant?” I asked, lighting a Marlboro and trying to keep calm.

He looked around, found a chair and sat down.

“I regret it is now no longer possible to advise the Atlantic City coroner that Brittany Waters’ death was accidental,” he said. “There are several issues that looks suspicious. Because of that, we intend to make a full investigation.”

I kept my face expressionless.

“I’m trying to follow you,” I said.

“Brittany Waters had many men friends,” he said. “I’m sorry to say this, but we discovered that she has been free and easy with her favors.”

“You are just  trying to be polite, Lieutenant,” I said. “So, what is your point here? Are you telling me she led an immoral life? That she was a whore?”

He nodded.

“That’s right.”

“That won’t make Reverend Waters happy. Are you sure of your facts?”

He made an impatient movement.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said. “We, I mean the Police Department, think it is more than possible that one of her men friends killed her. In other words, this is now a murder investigation. The bottom line is that I now have a list of the names of a number of men she knew. Unfortunately, your name is on that list.”

“So, this is your way of telling me that I had sexual relations with her?” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “Because if that is the case, it will give me great pleasure to sue you.”

“I’m not accusing you yet, Mr. Harry. You knew her. I’m just trying to clarify the position. Like I said before, we are convinced that a man she knew killed her. All I need from you at the moment is to tell me where you were on the day of her death.”

I have been expecting this question for a long time, so I already have a ready answer.

“Do you think I killed her, Lieutenant?” I asked in  a voice I scarcely recognized as my own.

“No, I don’t”, he replied. “I am working with a list of all the names of the men who knew her. Against each name, I am writing down the whereabouts of this man at the time of Ms. Brittany’s death. This will save me a lot of time because I only need to investigate those men who can’t account for their movements at the time.”

“That makes sense,” I drew in a long, slow breath. “So you want me to tell you where I was four days ago, right”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I have no problem with that,” I began. “It was the day I began my vacation. My plan was to go to Atlantic City. I forgot to book a room and, finding I had left it too late, I stayed in my house, working on my book. I am writing the biography of Henry Ford.  The following morning…”

“I’m not really interested in what happened the following morning, Harry,” Lieutenant Ludlum said. “Just tell me what happened on the 29^th.”

“No problem,” I said. “I was right here, working on my book. I worked all the afternoon and evening up to three o’clock the following morning. I didn’t go anywhere since I was so tired after putting in all that work.”

He looked down at his black shoes.

“Did anyone  called on you” he asked, hopefully.

“No one did, because I was thought to be in Atlantic City.”

“You did not get even a phone call?”

“No, for the same reason I believe.”

“I see.”

There was a long, awkward pause while he starred at his shoes. Then he looked at me and said, “Well, thank you Harry.”

To say the truth, meeting his eyes was like having a car’s high beam across my face.

He then got to his feet and added, “I’m sorry if I had taken up too much of your time. But you must understand that this is a complicated case. It is only by asking questions and making inquiries that we shall eventually arrive at the truth. You know that anyway.”

“No problem,” I said, aware that my mouth was dry and my hands were clammy.

“If I come across anything that I think you can help me with, I will be in touch with you again,” he said as he moved to the door. Then he stopped to look at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to add anything to what you’ve already told me? I mean, is there anything that may have slipped your mind that might help me?”

“Not at all” I said.

He stared at me.

“I think you should treat this matter seriously,” he said. “After all, this is a murder investigation. I guess the best way to put it is for you to think about it very well,  just in case some idea may occur to you.”

“No problem Lieutenant,” I said. “I will call you if I have something for you.”

“I will appreciate it if you do.”

He nodded and, opening the door, he left. As soon as he left, I stubbed out my cigarette. I then walked over to the window and watched the traffic swirling around my neighborhood. I noticed a few dark clouds in the sky: a sure sign that it was going to be a wet night. I saw Lieutenant Jim Ludlum get into the police car and drive away.

END OF EPISODE XX

P.S. Episode Twenty-One  will be published here next Monday.

The Pastor’s Daughter: Episode XIX

If Jesus had been around – you know, taking questions from newspapermen like me – I would have asked if He could help me solve this Brittany business. Anyway, I was very busy for the next two hours.

I knew by now Reverend Waters would be back in his Trenton office. Naturally, he would be waiting impatiently to hear from me. I told myself I would try to get something tangible for him – a kind of progress report of my investigation so far – to him during the day.

I called the Pinkerton’s Investigation Agency and told them to send their best man around. I told the person I spoke to at the agency’s phone that the job was confidential and urgent. They assured me they would send their best operator to me, a man they call Revkin Lockwood. Then I put a call  through to  Leifert Green  of The Baltimore Sun. Leifert has been in Middle River (which is a suburb town in the Baltimore area) for fourteen years. So he knew everyone who is likely to make news in the state of Maryland. And, of course, he also knew a few who wouldn’t.

I said I would like to have a word with him if he has the time.

“For you, Harry, I’m  always free,” he said. “What’s bugging you?”

“There’s some few things I want to figure out for my boss,” I replied.

“Suppose you buy me a huge lunch? I will be much obliged to talk.”

“Sounds like a plan” I said.

“What time will it be?”

I looked at my watch. The time was just after twelve.

“I will meet you at the  Baker’s Bar at one-thirty,” I said.

“Confirmed. I’ll be seeing you.”

I hung up the phone and made a few notes on a writing pad.  I also did a little thinking, trying to make up my mind on how much to tell Reverend Waters. His wife’s warning kept ringing in my head. I could see if I gave him the whole story he might get upset and mad at me. At the same time, it wasn’t going to be easy to keep much back either. I was still brainstorming on what I was going to tell him when the front door bell rang.

I opened the door and find a short, elderly white man, dressed in a shabby black suit, standing on my doormat. He introduced himself as Revkin Lockwood from the Pinkerton’s Investigation Agency.

Nobody asked me, but Revkin Lockwood wasn’t particularly impressive. By looking at his face I could bet he hadn’t shaved this morning. His linen was grubby and he carried with him a nasty smell of garlic that instantly poisoned the air in my room.

In any case, I told him to come inside. As he stepped in he removed his shabby fedora hat to show a balding head. He sat on the edge of one of my chairs while I went over to the open window and sat on the sill.  In my mind I was  praying for a circulation of fresh air.

“Mr. Revkin,” I began. “I want some information, and I want it as soon as possible. Money will not be a problem. I will suggest that your agency should put on as many men as they think necessary.”

His eyes opened wide and he showed me several gold-capped teeth in what he imagined was a smile. His smile looked to me like the kind of spasm you see on the face of a woman in labour when she has a sudden stomach cramp.

“The fact that I am your client means that the information I want must be regarded as strictly confidential,” I continued. “Also, the police are equally investigating the case and I don’t want you to tread on their toes.”

When I said this, his smile faded and his eyelid narrowed.

“The police are our friend,” he said. “We won’t do anything to annoy them.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” I assured him. “This is what I want you to do for me. I want you to find out who were the men friends of an African-American girl who stayed in Middle River for the past fourteen weeks. Her name is Brittany Waters. If you like, I can give you some of her pictures. She stayed in her family house in Victory Villa.” I handed him some pictures I had got Candace to send over from our files, as well as the address of Brittany’s family house at Victory Villa. “She had many men friends. Your job is to find their names and where I can find them. I also want to know what she did with herself during the time she was in Middle River.”

“Brittany Waters died accidentally in Atlantic City, I believe?” Revkin asked, looking at me. “She is the daughter of Reverend Reginald Waters, the Middle River Times owner?”

In spite of his shabby looks, this guy appears to keep abreast with the news.

“That’s right,” I said.

His gold teeth flashed. I could see he has now realized he was in with the big money and that pleased him. He produced a notebook and a pen and made a few notes.

“I will start immediately, Mr. Harry,” he said.

“What I just told you was the first job. I also want to find out who owns a black Pontiac with this registration number.”

I handed him a piece of paper where I wrote the black Pontiac’s number.

“The police told me this number is not in their records, that there is no such number registered. So your best approach would be to watch out for the car. If you spot it, you should follow it and get a look at the driver.”

He made more notes and, after that, closed his notebook.  He then said, “The death of Brittany Waters was not perhaps accidental, Mr. Harry?”

“We don’t know yet. But then, that shouldn’t bother you. Just get me this information fast and leave the other angle to the police to handle. They are paid to do the job anyway.” I stood up. “I want you to call me here as soon have anything reasonable. Don’t wait to give me a written report. I want you to clear this job in a very short period of time.”

He said he would do his best. He also suggested I might like to pay the usual retaining fee of one-thousand dollars, took my check, assured me that he would have something for me before long. He then left my apartment.

I opened another window, and then left the apartment myself to keep my appointment with Leifert Green. I found him drinking Irish Cream and crushed ice at Baker’s Bar. He is tall, thin man and has  steady eyes and a jutting jaw.

We had a couple of drinks. After that we went into the restaurant and ordered our meals. Each of us had the Baker’s Special, which consisted of steamed North American snow crab legs, tender lobster tails, hand-crafted garlic shrimp scampi, and Walt’s Favorite shrimp. Each of our meals was served with rice, chicken salad and red wine. We talked of this and that and enjoyed our meals. It wasn’t until we were eating the salads that I got down to business.

“I want some information from you, Leifert” I said.

He smiled at me.

“Of course I knew you didn’t bought this meal for me because you love me,” he said, grinning. “I’m not that dumb. So please go ahead – what is bugging you?”

“Does the name of Grace Roselli mean anything to you?”

His reaction was instant. I mean, the pleased, relaxed expression on his face slipped away. His eyes became alert.

“Wow! Wow! Wow!” he said. “Slow down and take it easy now, will ya? Now, why did you say that?”

“Sorry, Leifert, I’m not giving reasons. Just tell me who she is.”

“Vito Roselli’s daughter, of course. You should know that.”

“Vito Roselli, the mobster?”

“Oh come on Harry, you of all people shouldn’t ask that,” he said. “Sure, Vito Roselli the mobster.”

“Well, I know something about Vito Roselli, but not much. Where is he right now?”

“Believe me, that’s something I would like to know myself. Obviously, Vito Roselli is somewhere in Middle River, or perhaps, in Baltimore City. But, just where he’s holed up I don’t know and the Baltimore Police don’t know either. They don’t care anyway. He left Trenton about three months ago. He arrived at Baltimore City and registered with the Baltimore Police as instructed by the Judge, giving the hotel Marriott as an address. Then he vanished, and the Baltimore Police haven’t been able to trace him since. We in newspaper business know he hasn’t left the State of Maryland, but just where he’s got to, no one knows.”

“You mean, his daughter don’t know where he is as well?”

“Grace probably does, but she isn’t talking. I’ve had a word with her a couple of times. She has lived in Middle River for the past five years. When I interviewed her she says her father hasn't made contact with her. He have not even written to her, she said.”

“Tell me more about Vito Roselli, Leifert.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“You wouldn’t like to buy me a vodka, would you?” he said. “It would be good to finish such a good meal correctly.”

I signaled to the waiter, ordered two glasses of vodka, and when they arrived, I offered Leifert a Romeo Y Julieta cigar I had been keeping on ice for this occasion.

He examined it cautiously, looked at me, and then smiled. He then bit off the end and set light to it. Then he began, “There’s really not much I know that you don’t already know about Vito Roselli. He was the controls the Truckers and Construction Union in Trenton. He also control the brothels and gambling joints in that city. The word on the street was that many police officers in Trenton are in his payroll. Anyway, he’s a tough and dangerous mobster who stops at nothing to get his own way. He and Aquiles Gomez were sworn enemies, both of them wanting to be the boss of Trenton. You probably know that Aquiles Gomez had a load of heroin planted in Roselli’s apartment. He then tipped off the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA), who moved in, grabbled the load and arrested Roselli. But then, it was a clumsy job, and Roselli’s lawyer somehow was able to keep him away from the jail. Roselli was found not guilty, but the press made so much noise about the outcome, since they were gunning for him. So Roselli was charged as an undesirable resident and the judge ordered him to leave New Jersey while the investigation is ongoing. Because the judge saw him as a flight risk, he wanted to seize his international passport. Again, his lawyer intervened and secured him a deal: as a condition for keeping his passport, he was ordered to report to the police chief of any city he wish to reside. That way they can track his movements and activities. That was a very weird court decision, but then that is America for you. If you have the money to pay a good lawyer, you can basically run the show. Anyway, he moved to Baltimore, Maryland, where he was born and brought up. The Baltimore authorities don’t want him either. They were busy trying to find a reason to nail him when he vanished.”

“I hear the police thinks he ordered Aquiles Gomez’s killing,” I said.

“I think they are correct,” he replied. “Before he left Trenton, he told Gomez he’s a dead man. Two months later, Gomez was killed. I can bet my last buck Roselli arranged it.”

“Do you have an idea how it happened? Did Gomez take the threat seriously?”

“Of course he did. He never moved a yard without a bunch of bodyguards surrounding him, but Roselli’s killer got him in the end. Gomez made a fatal mistake. Just like Roselli, he had a soft spot for African-American ladies. He rented a secret apartment that he visits once a week regularly to spend the night with his girlfriend, who happened to be an African-American. He thought he was safe there. Normally, his bodyguards took him there. The routine was always the same each time he goes there: they searched the apartment. They waited until the girl arrived, then, after Gomez had bolted himself in, they went home. They would come back in the morning, identify themselves and then escort Gomez back to his home. On this particular night, they repeated the same routine, but when they came back to get Gomez the following morning, they found the door open and Gomez dead.”

“And the girl, whatever happened to her? Who was she?”

Leifert shrugged.

“Nobody seems to know. She was gone by the time they found Gomez and no one has seen her since. The thing is that, she didn’t live at the apartment. She was there waiting for Gomez  when he and his bodyguards arrived. Unfortunately, none of Gomez’s bodyguards ever got a look at her. Usually, she would stand looking out of the window while they searched the apartment. All they could tell the police was that she was an African-American with a good, seductive body. The police couldn’t trace her either. Since the door wasn’t forced, the police thought she must have let the killer in. No what I think? It’s pretty certain she sold Gomez out.”

I brooded over this for a moment, then asked, “Do you know a big man with very broad shoulders, who looks like a prize-fighter, and whose first name is Mac?”

Leifert shook his head.

“Not at all. In any case, where does he fit in?”

“I don’t know yet. But I want to find out. If you ever get a line on him, Leifert, will you let me know?”

“Sure, of course,” he said, tapping the ash off his cigar. “Look Harry, I think you should tell me why you suddenly developed interest in Roselli.”

“I can’t tell you right now,” I replied. “But if I come across anything you can use, I will definitely let you know. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you at this point.”

He pulled a face.

“Well, keep playing your games,” he said, then shrugged. “I did enjoy the lunch though, and I’m grateful.” He pushed back his chair and added, “If you haven’t any work to do this afternoon, I have. Before I get back to the treadmill, is there anything else you want to know?”

“No, I’m good,” I said. “But if I do think of anything, I’ll call you.”

“It’s a deal” he got to his feet. “You don’t happen to know where Vito Roselli is hiding, do you?”

“Well, I guess I should say that if I did, I will tell you.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Yeah, I know: like I would tell my girlfriend that my secretary has a chest like Dolly Parton. Anyway, I have to leave now. If anything happens to you, I’ll be at your funeral.”

We shook hands, and he left. After he was gone, I turned over in my mind what he had told me. To say the truth I hadn’t learnt much talking to him. But I wouldn’t say that the money I spent on the lunch was a waste either.

END OF EPISODE XIX

P.S. Episode Twenty  will be published here next Monday.

The Pastor’s Daughter: Episode XVIII

It took me longer than I planned to contact my ex-girlfriend on the Middle River telephone exchange. But I was able to get in touch with her around four o’clock  the following afternoon.

Naturally, when you broke up with a girl, she won’t like to have anything to do with you – ever. So I did not expect to be hugged and kissed when I got her on the phone. Neither was I surprised when she made the usual difficulties that a girl who has been dropped and now discovers you are interested in her again will make. So, with this mindset, it was easy for me to exercise a lot of patience and tact  before I could get around to what I wanted to ask her.

When I told her I wanted the name and address of a Middle River telephone subscriber, she said promptly that it was against regulations and that she could lose her job by giving me what I wanted. After a lot of persuasion and aimless talk which nearly drove me crazy, she finally suggested that we might discuss the matter over a dinner at The Duck’s. So I told her I would meet her at The Duck’s at eight o’clock and hung up.

I knew there would be more to it than a dinner at The Duck’s, so I bought a cologne for ten dollars that looked showy enough to have cost three times that price as a make-weight if she proves to be too difficult to convince.

I hadn’t seen this girl for three, or perhaps four years, and I didn’t recognize her when she entered The Duck’s. I mean, this girl had won Baltimore’s local beauty contest just three years ago. But when I saw her as she entered The Duck’s, I began to wonder how it had been possible for her ever to have won a prize in the contest. Three years can make quite a dent in the shape and size of any Baltimore lady if she doesn’t watch her diet, and this girl, my ex-girlfriend, hadn’t watched anything since the last time I saw her. She really changed a lot.

Anyway, like I predicted, she proved too difficult to convince. And it was only after I had slipped her the cologne that she finally agreed to get me the name and address of the subscriber of the telephone number I had found scribbled on Brittany’s lounge wall.

She promised to call me the following morning.

In spite of the dinner and the cologne I gave her, I had to wait until half-past eleven o’clock before her call came through. By then I was yellow with rage. Speaking in an irritated voice, she told me that the telephone subscriber in question was a woman. Because of the way she said it, my reply wasn’t that polite.

“Well,” I said. “It had to be either a man or a woman, right? You don’t have to get worked up. Certainly you wouldn’t expect it to be a dog, would you?”

“Stop shouting at me, will you?” she said. “I don’t owe you any favor, and I have no business to give you information about any subscriber, okay?”

This girl is driving me crazy! Following my late father’s advice, I counted up to ten mentally before I could trust myself to speak without cursing at her. Then I said, “Okay, you win. Let me have it.”

She told me that the subscriber lived at Carrol Island, near Chase in Middle River, and her name was Grace Roselli.

I wrote down the name and address.

“Thanks a lot,” I said, staring at the scribble on my paper. “Roselli? R-o-s-e-l-l-i? Is that right?”

She said it was.

Then I stiffened.

Roselli!

I remembered the Trenton Police had believed that Vito Roselli, Aquiles’ gangster rival had been responsible for Aquiles’ death. So the big question is -  was Grace Roselli connected in some way with him? Was she his wife,  his sister, or perhaps his daughter? Was there some hook up between this woman, Aquiles’ murder, Vito Roselli and Brittany?

I suddenly became aware that my ex-girlfriend was talking to me. She was talking very loud, and her voice slammed against my ear-drum, but I wasn’t worried about her. I quietly dropped the receiver back to its cradle. As I struggle to make the connection between Grace Roselli, Aquiles’ murder, Vito Roselli and Brittany, my heart started bumping with excitement.

I told myself that this might be the clue I had been looking for. I remembered Phorbus Taylor had told me that Brittany was thought to be mixed up in the Aquiles’ killing, and that was the reason why she had come to Middle River.

Did Vito Roselli really ordered the killing?

I decided it might pay off to take a look at the house in Carroll Island. The telephone bell rang. My mind told me it was probably my ex-girlfriend wanting to know if I had actually hung up on her. I didn’t have time for arguments at this point, so I just let the telephone bell ring.

END OF EPISODE XVIII

P.S. Episode Nineteen  will be published here next Monday.