Black Widower Read online

  Chapter 9

  Toots is not happy to be talking to me twice in such a short time span. He calls me to come see him at a bar where he hangs in Beverly, near 95th Street. It’s called Rocco’s, and Toots fits right in with the other wiseguy habitues of this tavern. You don’t see many non-Italians lurking in these confines. It’s mob-owned and operated since Capone was thriving out in Cicero in the 1930s.

  We sit at a table with the customary red and white checkering. There is a chianti bottle with wax dripped over the sides and a candle stuck in the center, but the candle is not lit.

  He asks me what I’d like, and I tell him.

  He frowns as he orders the Coke and his beer.

  “I might have a little something for you, but you’re going to have to reciprocate, Jimmy.”

  He’s working on his second double chin. His coloring looks bad, and I’m wondering if he’s ill.

  “How am I going to pay you back? I work in Homicide.”

  “You know other cops. My friend Jackie Cerenza has a beef against him from Vice. They say he uses under-aged girls in his crib on the north side, but it’s bogus. I just want you to put in a word with whoever.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”

  “Yeah, we all know what a straight-shooter you are.”

  “I said I’ll see what I can do.”

  He finally smiles at me when the drinks arrive via a well-knit blonde with only a little mileage on her. She’s built to kill, but she’s got bird-like legs that are only a small minus.

  “You like Helene, there?” he asks as the waitress shakes what she’s got all the way back to her roost at the bar. She’s the bartender and the hostess, this afternoon.

  “She’s very attractive.”

  “I heard about your wife. We were all sad about it.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Skotadi beat up one of Jackie Cerenza’s working girls. The prick knew she was connected to Jackie, but he whacked her around very nicely anyway. Broke her jaw. She had to go to the hospital. Wired her up, which doesn’t help with her job description, capici?”

  “Very funny, Toots.”

  “Well, Jackie wasn’t amused, and neither was his girl. She was out of action for six weeks, and then her jaw still wasn’t available for duty.”

  “Why didn’t Jackie take care of him?”

  “Because Skotadi’s a cop and because he was protected by his patron, Frank Pastore.”

  “But now Pastore’s out of the picture.”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, but we don’t make a habit out of taking out coppers.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Toots.”

  “Look, it ain’t a murder beef, but it’s assault and battery, and I thought you’d like to fuck up Skotadi’s employment picture even if you can’t get him strung up.”

  I take a hit at the Coke in the small glass filled mostly with ice. It’s Coke by association. A little weak. They water their goddam soda.

  “It’s something to consider. I appreciate the heads up, Toots.”

  “How about we don’t do this for a very long time? Okay, Jimmy?”

  “I understand. My companionship is not desirable.”

  “People get nervous when they see one of us talking to one of you. It’s nothing personal.”

  “I’ll see what I can do for your friend. Here, write down her name and where I can reach her.”

  He takes my ballpoint and my little green notebook, and he scribbles something down, and he returns them to me.

  “They’re watering the goddam Coca Cola in this joint,” I smile at him.

  “Take it up with Helene,” he grins.

  As I walk past the bar, Helene hands me a slip of paper folded in half. She smiles brightly as I accept the slip.

  “Don’t be a stranger around here,” she beams at me as I walk out.

  “I knew your luck was going to change,” Doc laughs as I show him the piece of paper with the name and phone number on it.

  “I don’t know if I should call her. You know who her employer is.”

  “Don’t be prejudiced. They hire civilians all the time. You want me to run her and see if I come up with anything that’d prevent you from walking the stairway to heaven with Helene?”

  “It’ll have to wait. I came up with another name.”

  I show him the notebook with Toots’ almost unreadable writing.

  “Mary Alice Bennett. With an address from the north side. So?”

  “Skotadi broke her face and put her on the sidelines for six weeks, maybe longer.”

  “That sounds like Derek doesn’t play well with others…Is it worth it?”

  “You really think we have much else?”

  “Strong arm isn’t really our purview, Jimmy. He didn’t kill her.”

  “But it might get him shit-canned from the CPD. Maybe we can start by cutting off his supply lines. We’ll have to give this to someone else, like you said.”

  “How about our friends from IA?”

  “Let’s talk to Mary Alice and see if she’s willing to pursue this thing.”

  *

  Mary Alice Bennett lives on Belmont and Broad in a very middle of the road neighborhood. Lots of two-flats and bungalows, like a lot of the north side ‘hoods. But it’s quiet, and the patrolmen around here, from what I’m told, don’t get a lot of calls from the residents.

  We called before we arrived, here, and Mary Alice agreed to talk to us.

  When she opens the door to the upper of the two-flat, we see a child of about four sitting on the carpet watching TV. He never turns to look at the two strange men who have materialized in his home.

  Mary Alice is still a looker. Whoever did her jaw fixed it expertly, and I can’t tell that Skotadi had done major damage to her.

  She sees the intent look I’m giving her.

  “I’ll show you the pictures from the hospital. They’ll help you in court.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police when it happened?” Doc asks.

  “Let’s go in the kitchen…Terry, these men are friends of Momma. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

  We sit at her kitchen table. She asks if we want coffee, and we both decline.

  “I don’t take clients here. He’s not used to strangers, but he’s real quiet, anyway. He’s got a stutter, and the speech pathologist is working with him at school. She says he’ll be fine in a few years, but the other kids make fun of him, sometimes.”

  I can see the sadness, the heaviness, in her eyes. Doc is looking right at her. I know he sees it, too.

  “You willing to testify against him in open court?” I ask.

  She gets up and tells us she’ll be right back. She returns promptly, holding a thin file.

  She hands it to me. I open it and look at the dozen photos. I can’t tell who I’m looking at because of the grotesque swelling and copious blood all over what has to be the face.

  I pass the file to Doc. When he looks them over, I hear his breath slowly release from his lips.

  “Jesus Christ,” my partner laments.

  “Yeah. I was a mess. Took three months and plastic surgery, but I’m all right, now. Yes, I’ll testify in open court—if you guarantee you won’t let this son of a bitch near me or near Terry.”

  “I’m sure I can fix it with my superior,” I tell her.

  “You better be certain you can protect me, because I’m not ashamed to tell you I carry a gun in my purse, and I’ll shoot him if I see him. You can pinch me, but the .32 is licensed, even if I’m not supposed to carry it on me.”

  I don’t doubt her resolution. Her eyes are enflamed with what has to be hatred. She’d kill Skotadi if he tried to get near her. I’m convinced.

  “Why are two Homicides talking to me?”

  “We’re looking at him for a few things,” I say.

  “So what do I have to do with your things?”

  “Sometimes, when you can’t make a pinch for one crime, you go with what you’ve got,�
�� Doc explains to her.

  “And you think Skotadi did murder?”

  “More than once. Yeah,” I tell her.

  “This seems like nothing, what happened to me, then.”

  I pick up her file.

  “It wasn’t nothing, Mary Alice. If you were my wife, I might’ve felt the need to do something more serious to Skotadi than jail.”

  “You’re a cop. You wouldn’t do that,” she declares.

  I don’t answer aloud, but she sees my response by looking into my eyes.

  “Officers from the Internal Affairs Division will be here to talk to you tomorrow. Would you like them to see you here, or would you prefer to come downtown?”

  “I think I’d like to go down there. My neighbors’ll start to think there’s something going on with me. They don’t know what I do to pay the bills.”

  “Okay, they’ll call you and set up a time,” Doc tells her.

  “I’ll have to get a sitter for Terry.”

  “You sound like a really fine mom,” I say.

  She looks at me to see if I’m floating sarcasm at her.

  “I mean that,” I say.

  I reach over and take her hand, and at first she doesn’t seem sure what my intention is.

  “Thank you, Mary Alice. You’re doing a good thing.”

  “He’s right,” Doc adds, and then he shakes her hand, as well.

  *

  “You ever seen a beating like that where the vic survived?” I ask Doc as we sit on dinner break at the 79th and Loomis White Castle.

  “It makes me a true believer, when it comes to our boy’s guilt.”

  “I’m surprised it was just her jaw that he obliterated.”

  “This man is a savage, Jimmy. If they nail him for Mary Alice, it won’t be justice.”

  “And he’s married again.”

  “Not while I’m eating.”

  But he’s not jesting. He puts his half-eaten slider back on the white plate. He takes a sip of his black coffee, and then he returns the cup to its mate saucer.

  “Maybe we should talk to the new bride,” I suggest.

  Doc looks over at me and smiles.

  *

  We see Carrie Skotadi at the salon where she works in the Loop. We found her via some intelligence from Skotadi’s fellow Vice officers. None of them can stand Derek, so it wasn’t hard to recruit them in our personal war.

  She works on the floor, showing various paintings by known and unknown artists. This is one of the swankiest art galleries in the Loop, and you have to be carrying thick wallets or purses just to get inside. Our badges have to suffice, and they do.

  His wife is a couple notches above drop dead. She’s mouth-watering, and I can see the glee on Doc’s obscene grin as we approach her.

  He sees me looking at him.

  “Sorry. Professional demeanor at all times. But goddam,” he whispers.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I proffer.

  We show her our badges.

  She guides us to the small room where she says they take breaks and lunch. I saw maybe seven employees out front, all women, and there’s no one in the break room.

  We sit at a square table, and she appears frightened.

  “We’re not here about you,” I say.

  “You’re here about Derek. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “This isn’t a formal visit, Mrs. Skotadi,” Doc tells her.

  “Please call me Carrie, then.”

  “Carrie, you’re aware of why we want to talk to you?”

  She looks at me and her face darkens.

  “You think he killed his wife, Jennifer. He did not.”

  “We think he did, and we think he murdered several other men, as well,” I reply.

  She stands up.

  “I don’t think I want to hear any more.”

  “Please sit down for a minute,” Doc says. “Just hear us out.”

  She hesitates, but she seats herself once more.

  “Derek is not a murderer. He’s gentle and caring and…”

  Then the streams of tears course down her cheeks. There is a box of tissues on the table, and she snatches several.

  “We don’t mean to upset you. We just want to know if you have any reason to suspect that maybe your husband might have something to do with the disappearance and death of his former wife, Jennifer,” I say quietly.

  “I know what he does for a living. I know he’s involved with very unsavory people. And I understand his life has been coarser than other men’s lives because of what he has to deal with. But my husband could never have killed Jennifer, or anyone else.”

  “Why don’t you live in Derek’s house?” I ask.

  Her face tightens like a clenched muscle, and her beauty turns into something else.

  “We’re selling it. This summer, maybe. Winter is a slow time, a bad time to sell property.”

  “We heard that he put it up for sale, previously, but then he took it off the market,” Doc says.

  “Who told you that?” she demands.

  “The realtor. One of Derek’s co-workers in Vice suggested the realty company. We found out, and we checked. Why didn’t it sell? It’s in a solid, established neighborhood.”

  She looks up at us and I see something new. It looks like fear.

  “I told you. It’s the wrong season to sell.”

  “One of Derek’s coppers said Derek told him there was a problem inside the house,” I say.

  “That’s silly. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  “He said there were…disturbances,” I smile.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “He said your husband told him that you won’t step foot in the place,” Doc joins in.

  “People say stupid things.”

  She’s collects herself, now, and a very desirable woman sits before us.

  “Do you trust your husband?” I ask.

  “Yes! What a stupid-”

  I push the file over toward her.

  “What’s this?” she demands.

  “Go ahead,” I tell her.

  She hesitatingly opens it, looks at the first few pictures, and then a tight fist rises to her lips.

  “This is Derek Skotadi’s work. He beat a prostitute until she needed several surgeries to put her face back together again. Shattered her jaw like a broken drinking glass. This is the guy you live with, Carrie. This is your husband, Detective Derek Skotadi, Vice.”

  Chapter 10

  She’s holding back. I don’t know what it is, but she’s going through the motions, phoning it in. When I finish, she has her eyes closed.

  I want to ask her what’s wrong, but I really don’t care. And I’m not going to beg her to find out. She wants to lie on her own bed and take it like a dead animal, that’s up to her. I haven’t got time for this shit.

  She’s only speeding things, lying there like some frigid bitch, taking one for the club.

  “You want to go out to eat, tonight?” I ask her.

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t be so goddam enthusiastic.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve just been tired, the last few days.”

  I stop dressing. I’m already late for my days’ shift. It’s seven already.

  I peer down at her. She’s got the top sheet draped over herself, very demure.

  “You wouldn’t be pulling a surprise party on me, would you, Carrie?”

  “It’s not your birthday.”

  “Very amusing. I meant you’re still on the pill, no?”

  “Of course I am.”

  I look at her eyes and I see fear there.

  “You say it like having a kid with me would be the apocalypse.”

  “It’s not that. There’s nothing wrong. Like I said. I’m just tired.”

  “Peddling cheap art crap is tiring? You ought to try a real job.”

  Her face flushes in anger, now.

  “Did I strike a nerve, sweetie?”

/>   She yanks herself up to a seated position, and the sheet drops and exposes her two major talents.

  “Maybe I’ll go in a little late, today.”

  “You need to get to work.”

  “I’m taking a sick day. I’ve got some coming.”

  I tear the top sheet off her, and she crosses her arms in front of her.

  “We’re married now. I have needs, baby.”

  She tries to stand up, but I throw her back on the bed, and then I pin her hands to either side of her head. At first she struggles, but then she realizes I’ll just overpower her anyway.

  I slap her hard across the face, and her eyes pop open in surprise. She rises up with an unexpected lunge, and she bites my shoulder. She’s drawn blood.

  So I slap her again, and this time she gives it up. She doesn’t want to get into this, but her rage turns into something else.

  I nip at her neck and she yelps, but I haven’t broken her skin.

  I come roaring at her, and her face clenches up into something ugly.

  But when I try to hold her close, she backs away. I don’t much care, since I’m done with her for the moment. I never knew she enjoyed it rough, but when you invest as much time with her as I have, you might as well have compensation.

  “Don’t ever hit me again,” she threatens.

  “You seemed to like it, a minute ago.”

  “I’ll change the locks. Or I’ll move out when you’re gone. But I won’t be home if you ever hit me again.”

  “Okay. How’s this, Carrie?”

  I take her face in my right hand and I squeeze until she’s in obvious pain.

  “You ever bite me again and draw blood, I’ll break your lovely neck.”

  The terror returns on her face.

  “Please,” she begs.

  “Nah. Would I do anything like that? I know I’ve got a good thing with you. You don’t really imagine I’d ever hurt you, do you, Carrie? You’re my wife. ‘Til death do us part. Remember Vegas?”

  *

  She’s still there when I get back around five. I thought I better put some time in at work, just to make sure I don’t give them an excuse to can me. She hasn’t changed the locks, either.

  But she’s very quiet. There’s no chatter aimed at me, the usual bullshit about what happened with her day at work.