Mary scanned the lineup of cars for an Escalade, but there wasn’t one. Whew. Then she reconsidered, wishing the Escalade were there. It would be better to know where Chico was at all times, rather than not. She suspected he had been sent out of the country, or at least the jurisdiction, after his attack on Keisha. And Mary hoped that he or Melania hadn’t talked to the maid about the funeral planner, because she didn’t want anyone in the Saracone camp to know what she was up to. It was only a matter of time before they did.
There was no traffic on the street, so she sat outside the house a minute, wondering what to do. Crash the party? Sneak around the back? And she wasn’t sure what she’d learn by going in. No, not yet. And she had better leads to follow anyway, when she launched the next stage of her investigation.
Starting as soon as she got back to the city.
Thirty-Eight
Only fifty-six more to go. The late-morning sun peeked through Mary’s office window as she typed at her laptop. She was researching the Saracones’ funeral guests and finding their home addresses. She hit the enter key and checked the monitor.
Richard Matern, Business address: 1837 Chestnut Street Phone: 215 546-2982
Home address: 314 Delancey Street, Philadelphia, PA 19103 215 454-9848
She copied the information to a new document and penciled a checkmark on the pink sheet, underneath Melania’s Memo. Then she plugged in the next guest’s name, hit enter again, and in a second, the next address and phone number popped onto the screen. Ten addresses and phone numbers, so far. The Internet made all sorts of information public, and home addresses were a warm-up to bra sizes and HDL levels.
“Missed you this morning,” Judy said, appearing in the doorway. She looked remarkably corporate in her blue sleeveless dress, but she still had bedhead, her blonde hair going everywhich way. Mary thought it might be intentional, because nobody but her actually parted their hair anymore, especially everybody in whatever generation she was supposed to be in.
“Sorry, I was out.” Mary kept typing.
“Where were you?”
Uh. “Out.”
“What’re you doin’?” Judy asked, her tone suspicious.
“Stuff.”
“Translation, you’re back on Brandolini. Me, I’ve been in a deposition all morning. Your deposition in Alcor.”
“Thanks. How’s it going?”
“It’s all finished, it went great, and you don’t have to feel guilty about it.”
“Then why’d you give me guilt?”
“For fun.”
Mary smiled.
“I also successfully served Premenstrual Tom, and the TRO hearing is next week. It’s yet another deposit in the karma bank for me. I’m beating you, even though you surged ahead with all this pro bono work.” Judy entered the office and came around the desk to snoop. “Guess you know that Keisha’s still unconscious.”
“I called, too.” Mary ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The way she could help Keisha best was by doing exactly what she was doing. She cut-and-pasted another address into her document. Fifty-five more to go. “Bill’s with her, so at least she’s safe.”
“I know.”
“Tell me what the papers say. I didn’t take the time to grab one this morning, and they barely mentioned it on the radio.” Mary had listened on the way in, after the shortcut. The attempt on Keisha’s life rated three whole seconds of airtime, and only because the knifing took place in Rittenhouse Square. “They don’t get excited unless you die.”
“Or you’re white.” Judy shook her head. “The newspaper has the attack as only a small piece. That reporter evidently didn’t make the connection between Keisha and Saracone, so it’s just street crime.”
“For the moment.” Mary kept working. Fifty-four to go.
“Hear from Gomez?”
“No.” Mary had left two messages.
“Bet he didn’t go to Saracone’s yet.”
“No takers here.” Fifty-three. Only one phone unlisted, so far. Mary tried to ignore Judy, who was reading her computer screen, and she braced for the inevitable lecture. “Isn’t this where you tell me this case is too dangerous?”
“No. This is where I make you give me half that list, so that it gets done in this century.”
“Really?” Mary looked up, feeling a rush of gratitude.
“Gimme.” Judy held out her hand, and Mary complied.
“Thanks. You’re going straight to heaven, girl.”
“Since what happened to Keisha, I’m all about you getting those animals.”
“Even the Dalai Lama would approve.”
“Bennie wouldn’t.”
“So we’ll keep it a secret,” Mary said, but she was worried. She couldn’t keep a lid on everything forever. Sooner or later, Bennie or Chico was going to blow, and Mary wasn’t sure which was worse. Okay, she was. “How much longer can I keep ducking her phone calls?”
“You can’t. Beat her to the punch.”
“What do you mean?”
“You disappoint me, Mare. Call her cell right now and say hi. Act like everything’s fine. Don’t give her any reason to worry.” Judy made a little skating motion with her hand. “Smooth as glass.”
“Call her now?” Mary checked her watch. 10:30. “She’s on trial. Her cell will be turned off.”
The two girls locked eyes. “Perfect!” they shouted, in happy unison.
And Mary reached for the phone.
By midafternoon, she was sitting in front of the glistening mahogany desk of Richard Matern, a V.P. at Philadelphia National Bank. He looked to be about fifty years old, much younger than Saracone. It probably would have saved time to call the guests on the maid’s list instead of meeting them, but Mary could learn more if she saw them face-to-face. Also they couldn’t hang up on her. She’d gotten in to see Matern only by harrumphing her way past his secretary and dropping Saracone’s name. And right now he was looking at her expectantly, his smile coolly professional.
Showtime. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Matern,” Mary began. “I’m Rikki Broughley, an investigator here on behalf of Melania Saracone. She would have called you to introduce me, but she’s resting today, understandably.”
“Of course she is. It’s awful about Giovanni.”
“Yes, it is. Melania mentioned that you were at the house for the luncheon and also sent her some very nice calla lilies.” Mary had remembered one card, and shot her wad.
“Thank you. It’s the least we could do.”
“Mr. Matern, for my records, could you give me some background about yourself?” Mary pulled a small legal pad from her purse, as a prop. And a security blanket. “How long have you known Mr. Saracone?”
“Ten years or so. He was a client of mine.”
Mary would have to get back to that. “Now, Melania tells me that you often fished with Mr. Saracone, on the Bella Melania.”
“Yes, my wife and I have gone out on the boat, as his guests.” Mr. Matern cocked his head in a critical way. “What did you say this was about?”
“Well, confidentially,” Mary said, lowering her voice, “it’s come to Melania’s attention that certain guests on the boat have had some of their valuables go missing after their fishing trips, and she suspects the culprit may be one of the crew. She’s asked me to look into it, to substantiate terminating him.”
“Oh, I see.” Mr. Matern’s shoulders relaxed, and Mary guessed he bought the story. She had made it up with Judy, who said it was more fun than working.
“As you were saying, you used to go fishing with Mr. Saracone.”
“You’re half right. I didn’t fish, I’m a golfer. All I did was sit on deck and drink margaritas.” Matern chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
“You don’t fish?”
“Nah. Giovanni didn’t fish either, truth be known.”
Huh? “He didn’t?”
“Nah, he loved his boat and he made great margaritas, but he didn’t fish. He thought it was bo
ring. Face it, it is boring.”
“I see.” Mary made a note on her pad, only to hide her surprise. How could that be? It didn’t square with all the fishing pictures in Saracone’s office. “Did you or your wife ever miss any valuables after a trip on the Bella Melania?”
“No.”
“Does the name Amadeo Brandolini mean anything to you?”
“No. He on the crew?”
“Not that I know.” Mary let it drop. It was risky to even go there, but she had to ask it. Her disguise was good enough, and it was a safe bet that Matern didn’t remember the details of the newspaper story from days ago. “Now, also for the record, I understand that Mr. Saracone made certain investments with you. Substantial investments, in the neighborhood of twenty million dollars.” Mary was remembering the financial statement in Saracone’s home office. “Twenty million with you, and slightly more with Merrill Lynch. I probably shouldn’t specify how much, exactly.”
“More with Merrill?”
“I can’t confirm.”
Mr. Matern arched a graying eyebrow. “I’m surprised you know all that.”
I am, too. “Don’t be. Melania trusts me completely, Mr. Matern.”
“She never mentioned you.”
“I’m that confidential, and of course, Melania requests that you keep this visit strictly between us. To do otherwise would not only jeopardize the investigation, but it could also make you vulnerable to a defamation suit, should the culprit decide to sue her.”
“Of course.” Mr. Matern sat suddenly upright. The word lawsuit could do that to anyone, even executive vice presidents. Especially executive vice presidents.
“Now, you were discussing the source of the investment funds.”
“The source?”
“Of course, we were discussing Saracone’s investments, and you were saying how it was amassed.”
“No.” Mr. Matern shook his head, puzzled. “I wasn’t saying how it was amassed.”
“Of course not, and you keep getting me off the point.” Mary tried shooting him a stern glance and may have succeeded. If so, it would be the first time in her life. She rose to go, slipping her legal pad back into her purse. “Well, thank you for your time. I do appreciate it, and your discretion.”
“Of course. Please give my best to Melania.”
Ten minutes later, Mary was sitting in front of another mahogany desk in another ritzy office in Center City. Thomas Richter sold home and car insurance, and was a younger version of Mr. Matern, only with blue eyes. Mary went through her spiel and ended with: “And so, how often did you and your wife Lynnie go fishing with the Saracones on the Bella Melania?”
“At least ten times, I guess.”
“You must be an avid fisherman.”
“No, not at all.” Richter laughed. “I only went along because Giovanni invited us. But we never fished, we just sat around in those little chairs on deck and drank Bloody Marys.”
“Giovanni didn’t fish?”
“Not that I saw.”
Weird. “Thanks for your time,” Mary said, closing her pad to go.
Ten offices later, in a double-checking frenzy, she had met most if not all of Saracone’s guests, all young or middle-aged professionals who had sold him his car, home entertainment system, or stocks; fixed his bridgework, his sundeck, or Porsche Carrera; prepared his taxes, his will, or his pension fund. All of them had been on the Bella Melania with Saracone and had guzzled vodka gimlets, Tanqueray-and-tonics, whisky sours, Manhattans, daiquiris, or Heineken. None of them fished, and all of them confirmed that Saracone didn’t, either. None of them knew him that well. None of them knew the name Brandolini, except for one who swore it was a delicious entrée, with clams and white sauce. None of them went back to the old days. Mary didn’t get it. Somehow, somewhere, somebody had to know Amadeo, or at least fish, or there was no connection to Amadeo at all. And she would be, as they say, dead in the water.
By five-thirty, Mary was standing in front of her last reception desk of the day, facing the final secretary she’d have to barrel through, beg, or sweet-talk.
“Hello, I’m Rikki Broughley,” she began, glancing around the insurance office. “I’m here to see Mr. Jackmann.” It was a one-man law office in an unfashionable part of the city, and the secretary chain-smoked brown Capri cigarettes.
“Mr. Jackmann’s gone for the day.”
“Will he be back? It’s an important matter, on behalf of his friend Melania Saracone.”
“No.” The receptionist belched smoke. “Melania? She the wife?”
“Yes. Giovanni’s wife.”
“Oh, Gio, we know.”
Gio. Giovanni’s nickname. The last time she’d heard it was from Mrs. Nyquist. Melania never used it, Mary realized now. “So Mr. Jackmann goes back, with Gio?”
“Way back.”
“How old a man is he?”
“Almost seventy-five. He’s semi-retired, hardly comes in anymore.”
“If he’s not coming back, can you tell me where he lives?” Mary asked, intrigued. Jackmann would be the oldest on the list. “It’s urgent. Or at least would you mind calling him and asking him to call me?”
“Sorry. He has a cell phone, but he won’t answer it. He can’t be reached today unless you’re the Coast Guard.”
Mary couldn’t believe her ears. “What did you say?”
“He’s fishing.”
Wahoo! “What time does he finish? When is he coming in? Docking, whatever? Better yet, where does he fish from?”
“You want to go to the marina?”
“I have to, it’s my job. It’s that important to him. Money is involved. Major money.”
The secretary’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I see. A will. Did Gio leave him money?”
Yeah, right. “I’m not at liberty to say. Just tell me, where does he come in from fishing? From.” Huh?
The secretary rattled off a marina address, and Mary thanked her and scooted out the door.
Thirty-Nine
The sun was setting on the other side of town, and Penn’s Landing was losing its light. The marina was located on the Delaware River at the eastern border of the city, just off the newly renamed Christopher Columbus Boulevard, tucked behind Dave & Busters. Mary wouldn’t have guessed that a marina could be a twenty-minute cab ride from Center City, much less next to a sports bar.
The marina was smallish, with only a few skinny wooden walkways between lots of gleaming white boats, bobbing gently in the murky river. People on the boats were laughing, sporting fresh sunburns, and they looked relaxed even as they busied themselves unpacking things, untying things, and undoing things after a day’s fishing. Mary looked around, not wanting to miss Jackmann coming in, and scanned the names of the moored boats. Donna. Julie. Tiffany; must be first, second, and third wife’s names. There were bad puns, too: Full of Ship. Sea More. Ocean’s Eleven Grand. And then the one she was looking for, already in: Outta Here. It was a white boat, about twenty feet long, with a matte finish and navy stripes along the side and it flew the American flag. An older man was unloading a spool of white rope off the boat and onto the dock. Jackmann.
Mary hurried down the walkway, pretending she wasn’t a landlubber, and burst through a cyclone fence gate in defiance of the MEMBERS ONLY sign. She waved her hand to get Jackmann’s attention. “Ahoy! Mr. Jackmann!” she called, caught up in the nautical spirit, but he didn’t look up and the effort made her cheek wound throb. Loser. She tried again when she reached the back of his boat. “Mr. Jackmann!” Mary was almost breathless, and he finally raised his head.
Jackmann had a weathered tan that brought out the sea blue of his eyes, and he was tall and still fit, in a white polo shirt, raggedy shorts, and untied sneakers. He sported a bushy beard, a headful of thick, grayish hair, and forearms like Popeye. Hot, for an old salt, Mary thought, then stopped cruising a septuagenarian. “Excuse me, are you Floyd Jackmann?”
“Every day.” Jackmann squinted at her, not unfriendly, merely puzzl
ed. “Do I know you?”
“No. Your secretary told me you’d be here.” Mary sized him up. He looked like a no-nonsense kind of guy and she was sick of lying. “My name’s Mary, and it’s important that I talk to you. I wanted to get some information about Giovanni Saracone.”
“Take this can, would you?” Jackmann handed her a rusty blue Maxwell House coffee can sitting on the deck, next to a pile of other fishing gear and supplies. Mary accepted it, but it emitted such a stench, she had to look inside.
“Argh!” She jumped back in horror, almost dropping the can. Long alien-worms with zillions of legs slithered all over one another. One looked up at her with three little black eyes. “Gross! What are they?”
“Bloodworms. Don’t put your hand in there, hon. They attach right to ya.” Jackmann laughed with a smoker’s throatiness. “Now, whaddaya want to know?”
“I understand you were at Mr. Saracone’s funeral lunch, and your secretary said you two go way back. I was wondering if you could tell me—”
“You want information, you can work for it.” Jackmann handed her a red Playmate cooler, mercifully sealed. “Take this and set it over there.”
“Okay.” Mary set the cooler down as instructed. “So how long did you know Saracone?”
“Long time.” Jackmann locked a white plastic box fixed to the deck of the boat. In front of the box was a blue padded driver’s seat, a blue steering wheel, and over it, a panel of black control switches that read, NAV AFT BILGE WASHDOWN ACC.
“Since the war?”
Jackmann’s eyes flashed a minute, a surprised shot of blue. “Yeah.”
“How did you know him? How did you meet?”
“Everybody knew Gio. I was in college, working part-time with my dad, outta the shipyard. Gio was around all the time, with the lunch truck.” Jackmann handed her a rusty green box with a rusty handle, then pointed to the dock. “Tackle box goes over there.”