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.