The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  “How could I, my friend? I don’t even know this Stephanie whoever.”

  “Stephanie Bellano. You—”

  “Bellano. Doesn’t ring a bell.” He smiled at his stupid little joke.

  “You knew her father, Joseph.”

  “That’s bullshit, my friend. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You were sitting in his barbershop a week ago Friday when Stephanie came in, made a big scene, and ran out. She was scared witless of somebody in there.”

  Stan was staring at me with narrowed eyes.

  “There was you,” I said, “Gary Rivers, Mitch Overholser, and Johnny Toes Burke. Plus Joseph and Sal.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my friend.”

  “You were there Stan.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend, Stan. None of my friends are liars.”

  His face got dark.

  He pushed himself up out of his chair, slowly, threateningly, giving me a chance to run for my life. I stood up. He stalked past me to the door.

  “Frank! Wayne! Come here!”

  Frank and Wayne were the two oxen I’d seen working out with the refrigerator. They appeared on Fowler’s threshold with their sleeves rolled up over heavy arms. I glanced around the office for a weapon.

  “Jake here has lost his way,” Fowler said. “Show him out to the front. So long, Jake.”

  I tried not to look relieved.

  “Talk to you again real soon, Stan. And oh, by the way. You wouldn’t make a pimple on Musial’s butt.”

  “What?”

  Frank and Wayne led me out to the showroom. I looked around for Roberson. I spotted him in the distance, surrounded by television sets, waiting for his day to improve. He perked up when he saw me approach.

  “Change your mind about a new TV?”

  “No, Mr. Roberson, I just wanted to apologize to you.”

  “Huh? For what?”

  “Getting you yelled at by your boss.”

  “Oh, that.” He looked past me toward the far-off swinging doors. “Forget it.”

  “No, really, I’m sorry. It was my fault. If I’d’ve known Fowler was such a loud, obnoxious bastard, I—Oops, I guess I shouldn’t be talking that way about your boss.”

  “Forget it,” Roberson said with a small smile on his tired face.

  “I worked for a guy like Fowler once,” I lied. “He acted like he owned me just because he signed my commission check. If I hadn’t needed the money so bad, I would’ve told him to shove it.”

  “I hear you.”

  “What makes guys like that tick, anyway?”

  “Beats me,” Roberson said.

  “Take Fowler, for instance. Now he’s probably a pretty evenhanded guy to begin with, right?”

  “Hah.” Roberson looked over my shoulder and lowered his voice. “If you only knew.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve probably heard it before. Guys like us, we’ve seen most of it, right?”

  “Tell me. And Stan Fowler uses every trick in the book.”

  “No kidding. What, for instance?”

  Roberson nodded toward the end of the row, and I followed him around the side of a big-screen Zenith. John was still explaining to Marsha about him and Carlotta and Rio.

  “Counterfeits,” Roberson said. He patted the Zenith. “Like this baby here, which sells for fifteen hundred and comes with a three-year warranty. The trouble is, it’s made in Mexico, worth a couple hundred at best, and Mr. Zenith never laid eyes on it. We get the customer to waive the warranty, which we convince him he’s never going to need, anyway, and knock off three or four hundred bucks. The set might last three years or three months. Whatever, Fowler’s profit is around five hundred percent.”

  “Clever. He must be rolling in dough.”

  “You’d think. But he’s not. Business is not good. I don’t care what the government calls it, we’re in a depression. Plus Fowler’s got personal problems.”

  “Really?”

  Roberson nodded. “His wife’s an alcoholic. Practically a shut-in. Of course, he probably drove her to it. I mean, everyone knows he likes to hit the bars and pick up young chicks. He tells his wife he’s playing poker with the guys. He’s playing ‘poke her,’ all right.”

  When I got outside, there was half an inch of new snow on the Olds. I brushed it off, wondering if Stan Fowler had ever been to the Lion’s Lair looking for “young chicks.” Chicks like Stephanie Bellano.

  CHAPTER 12

  AT A QUARTER TO THREE I was sitting in the reception area of radio station KNWZ, 730 on your AM dial.

  It was pleasant. The room was pleasant, and so was the receptionist. She’d taken my message to Gary Rivers. Then she’d brought me coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Sugar, no cream. I sipped it and looked at her legs. Pleasant. I listened to piped-in muted voices—Rivers and a caller named Al. They were arguing on the air. Something about gambling.

  The show ended at three.

  A few minutes later Rivers came into the reception area.

  “Mr. Lomax?” he said.

  I stood and shook his hand. He was about five nine, shorter than he looked on TV. Thinner, too. He wore a crewneck sweater with no shirt underneath, faded Levi’s, and running shoes. I guess you don’t have to dress up for radio.

  “Carol said you had some information about Joseph Bellano.”

  “Not exactly. I want to talk to you about his daughter Stephanie.”

  “Oh. Okay, but”—he checked his watch—“I’m in a bit of a rush, and the traffic with this weather …”

  I waited.

  “My office,” he said.

  I followed him down a carpeted hallway. There was smoked glass on our left, allowing a dim view of plush offices. There were doors with brass doorplates. General Manager. Program Director. News Director.

  Rivers’s door was blank. His office was small and generic. The window offered a southwestern view from twenty stories up. On a clear day you could probably see all the way across town to the tiny black spire of Loretto Heights. Today, though, you could see snow and a few partially obscured downtown buildings.

  Rivers sat with me on this side of the desk, in an armless chair like mine.

  The desk and chairs were durable, not pretty. Since the turnover rate was high among radio “talent,” why waste money on expensive furnishings? Besides, these guys weren’t about to complain; most of them were glad just to be working. Some of them, including Rivers, were very glad. Their incomes ran to six figures.

  “I’ve been hired by Mrs. Bellano to find Stephanie.”

  “Stephanie still hasn’t come home?” He looked surprised and concerned. No.

  “God, poor Angela.”

  “Do you know Stephanie’s mother?”

  “No. Nor Stephanie, for that matter. But Joseph talked a lot about them.”

  “I didn’t know you and Joseph were friends.”

  He nodded. “You see, for the past few months I’ve been putting together a series on gambling in the state. It’s just now airing on Channel 5. Actually, I started toying with the idea almost a year ago—talking to bookies, gamblers, and so on. That’s when I met Joseph. He was easier to talk to than most. And he’d been around longer, too. So I tried to stay close to him. In that respect, we were friends.”

  Some friend. Rivers had used film of Bellano’s death site for his own commercial purposes. Oh, well, that’s show biz.

  “You were in Bellano’s shop,” I said, “the day Stephanie ran away.”

  “Yes. In fact, that was the first time I’d ever seen her.”

  “Sal told me she looked scared to death.”

  “She was scared,” Rivers said. “She’d said some things to her father that she instantly regretted.”

  “Sal thinks she was scared of one of the customers.”

  “One of the customers
?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Rivers said. “What I do know is that when she came in the shop she was out of control, crying and yelling her head off, calling Joseph a liar and a criminal. She said she hoped him and all of us gangsters would end up in prison where we belonged.”

  “We?”

  “She pointed a finger at each one of us, me included. Joseph was as surprised as any of us. At first he thought it was funny. Then he got angry. He told her to shut up. He said he’d talk to her after work. It sounded like he meant more than just talk. That’s when she ran out. Joseph joked about it with everyone in the shop. He said Stephanie would be home with an apology before dinnertime.”

  “She didn’t come home, though.”

  “No.”

  “And she didn’t come home even after her father was killed.”

  A frown blemished Rivers’s face. He was thinking.

  “I see what you mean,” he said. “If she’d run for fear of her father, she’d have returned by now.” He frowned some more. “If only I could remember …”

  “What?”

  “The other men in the shop.”

  “Stan Fowler, Mitch Overholser, and Johnny Toes Burke.”

  “Johnny … that’s right, I remember now.” He stared very hard at the wall behind me. He was thinking. “That’s too much of a coincidence,” he said, looking at me. “I know something about Johnny Toes Burke. He works for Fat Paulie DaNucci.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “God, do you think the Mafia is responsible for Stephanie’s disappearance?”

  “It’s possible. The odds are they killed Bellano.”

  “We’ve got to find her,” Rivers said.

  “We?”

  “Yes. If Stephanie is hiding from Burke and DaNucci, then she may have information. Valuable information.”

  I saw the light behind his eyes. A new TV special was in the making.

  “If they find her before we do,” he said, “her life won’t be worth two cents.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we. I feel personally involved. Joseph Bellano was my friend.”

  “He’s also a news story.”

  Rivers gave me a hard look.

  “I know what you’re thinking—that I’m just interested in the news value. Okay, I admit it, that’s part of the reason. Stephanie may know things that would surprise us all.”

  “Surprise? Don’t you mean entertain?”

  Anger crossed his face. Then he smiled. “Perhaps I do. In any case, I’d like to help. I can help.”

  “How?”

  “That’s up to you,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of connections in this town and access to information most people don’t have. And I’ve done a fair bit of investigating, too.” He looked smug.

  Then he looked at his watch. “Christ, I’m going to be late.” He got out one of his cards. There was nothing on it but his name. Ah, success. He turned it over and wrote down three phone numbers.

  “The first one is the office, the second is my home.”

  “And the third?”

  “Oh. My car.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “Please,” he said, “call me if you want any help.”

  He ushered me out of his office and down the hall to the reception area. He opened a closet and put on his jacket. It was black and bulky and hip. He said good-bye to Carol, then held the door for me. I hesitated.

  “I’ve got to make a call. Do you mind if I use this phone?”

  “Help yourself,” Rivers said. “Got to run.”

  I know. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Rivers hurried out. Carol the secretary turned her phone toward me. I smiled at her and called my answering machine.

  “I didn’t quite finish the interview,” I told the recording of my voice, “because he had to leave. No, I don’t think he’ll be free until tomorrow. Goddamn it, I—Oops.” I gave Carol a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” I whispered to her. “Look,” I said to the beep telling me to begin my message, “I’m here with his secretary. Maybe she can give us what we need. I know we’re on deadline.” I hung up.

  Carol looked at me expectantly.

  “I hate to bother you with this,” I said.

  “Are you interviewing Mr. Rivers?”

  “For the News,” I said, getting out my notepad. “TV Dial. There’s just a few background questions I missed, and my editor’s screaming deadline at me. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  I flipped through the pad as if searching for a blank page. They were all blank.

  “How long have you known Gary?”

  “I was here when he started. Almost two years.”

  “Really? I’ll bet you know him better than most.”

  “I suppose so,” she said with some pride.

  “Is he hard to work for?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t. Are you saying that others do?”

  She took a little breath through her cute nose.

  “Not everyone understands Mr. Rivers,” she explained. “He’s extremely talented and dedicated. A perfectionist, you know? If things aren’t just right, well, he lets people know about it in no uncertain terms.”

  “He gets angry.”

  She nodded apprehensively. “Sometimes, very much so. But maybe you shouldn’t print that.”

  “Why? Everyone gets angry now and then.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Rivers …”

  “What? He wouldn’t like me to print it? Or do you mean he gets angrier than most?”

  She paused. “Both,” she said, then added quickly, “but really, he’s been a lot more low key for the past few months, since, well, you know. Since the tragedy.”

  “What tragedy?”

  “He didn’t tell you? No, I guess he wouldn’t; it’s still too painful. He and his wife suffered a death in the family.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was just terrible. Especially under the circumstances.”

  I sat on the corner of her desk. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” she said confidentially, “Mr. Rivers had been under a lot of stress. His ratings were okay, but overall the station’s ratings were down. There was a lot of pressure on everybody. Also, Mr. Rivers was starting to produce specials for television. Of course, you know about that.”

  “Of course.”

  “Anyway, the strain was getting to him. He and the general manager had a tremendous argument. The manager forced Mr. Rivers to take time off from work. Mr. Rivers really blew up then. But he had no choice. And it was during that time that the tragedy occurred. His wife was so distraught that Mr. Rivers had to take her down to Colorado Springs to stay with her parents. As far as I know, she’s still there. Mr. Rivers, though, has managed to carry on. He really is extraordinary.”

  “This argument between Rivers and the general manager, when was that?”

  “Four or five months ago.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Later that evening I got a call from Zeno. The printouts were ready.

  I drove to Aurora. The snow had nearly stopped, and the streets were scraped and sanded. I turned off East Iliff Avenue into Zeno’s apartment complex. Milton buzzed me up. He let me in and tried to look aggressive. His thick glasses and buck teeth, though, weren’t much help.

  “Zeno’s in the kitchen,” he said.

  I took a step, and he put his hand on the sleeve of my coat, then quickly withdrew it.

  “Yes?”

  “Zeno, ah …”

  “What is it, Milton?”

  “Zeno’s my girlfriend.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I … just wanted you to know that.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.”

  “As long as you know.”

  “Sure, Milton. Look, Zeno and I are just friends, you know? Like cousins or something. You’re
the only man for her. She told me that.”

  “She did?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “Oh.” He blushed. Love.

  “I won’t be a minute.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Zeno was making cookies, which surprised me. Her hands were covered with goo.

  “Hi, Jake. They’re right there.”

  At one end of the counter was a stack of fan-folded, green-barred computer paper. I flipped through the sheets, fifty or more, each filled with rows and columns of names and numbers.

  “Do you want the disks, too?” she asked.

  I thumped the stack with a finger. “Is this everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then destroy the disks.”

  “You mean erase them.”

  “Whatever you call it, Zeno.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Do it tonight, okay?”

  “Sure, Jake.”

  “Great. Now what do I owe you for all this?”

  “No charge,” she said, and smiled coyly.

  “Baloney. You work, you get paid.”

  “Call it a favor, then.”

  “A favor. All right, I owe you. A big one, okay?”

  “Okay, Jake.”

  When I got home, I filled a squat glass with ice and Jack Black. The computer sheets were separated by perforations, but I didn’t bother to pull them apart. I began reading through them. It was all pretty elaborate. More so than usual for a bookie. Maybe Bellano had been carried away by his new computer toy.

  He’d arranged his records in two sections: bettors and games.

  The games were separated by week and by sport—baseball, basketball, and pro and college football. Each week had a column for team name, point spread, bettor’s name, bettor’s choice, and amount wagered. The last column listed plus or minus amounts, depending on whether Bellano was to collect or pay. At the bottom of this column was a total. It was a plus. I guess bookies don’t lose. The worst week I could find, from Bellano’s standpoint, was a profit of four hundred dollars. The average was around four grand, give or take. The best week I found—last year’s Super Bowl—was twenty-nine thousand. I estimated that Bellano had taken in close to a quarter of a million this year. Assuming all his players paid off. There’s the rub.

  I turned to the sheets listing the bettors.