Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“So you know it’s mob related,” Mendoza began. “Somehow, you decided that Gio Abruzzi was worth following.”
“He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would patronize a dinky body shop on Charlotte Avenue.”
“The Body Shop is not dinky,” Mendoza said. “Although you’re right. Gio babies that car. When something’s wrong with it, he takes it to a guy who specializes in luxury and foreign. That isn’t Sal Gomorra.”
Clearly not. The Body Shop dealt with a lot more Chevys and Jeeps and Fords than anything foreign or luxury.
“Is Sal Gomorra part of the mob?”
Mendoza shook his head. “Sal is a nice guy who just wants to make a living. He’d have nothing to do with any of it if it weren’t for Nick.”
“So Nick’s the one who’s connected.”
He shook his head. “Nobody’s connected. Not at the Body Shop. Nor at Sambuca, in case you were thinking there are people being fitted with concrete shoes in the back room.”
“The man-mountain—” I began, and Mendoza made a sound that was halfway between a snort and a burst of laughter.
“That’s Izzy Spataro, and yes, he’s connected.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Izzy?” That seemed rather girly for such a big guy.
“Isidore,” Mendoza said. “Good, old-fashioned Italian name.”
Sure. “What does Izzy do?”
“Whatever Izzy wants,” Mendoza said, and shook his head. “Izzy’s harmless. They’re all harmless until you get in their way. So don’t get in their way.”
I had no plans to get in Izzy’s way, and told him so. “Just give me an idea of what’s going on so I know what to tell Jacquie to get her off my back. And off Nick’s.”
“I’m not concerned with Nick’s back,” Mendoza said, “or with Jacquie’s. I would like to keep you from doing something that gets you killed, though.”
Yes, so would I. I made a demanding sort of ‘get on with it’ gesture, and he snorted.
“Earlier this year, Nick got in trouble with some people over some debt. Since he couldn’t pay, they persuaded him—” he made quotation marks around the words, “—to offer up his employer’s business for a bit of money laundering.”
“And Sal went along with it? Or didn’t fire him when he found out?”
“By then it was too late,” Mendoza said. “And Nick’s been working there for ten years. He’ll probably take over when Sal retires.”
I wished I could see what made Nick so appealing to people like Jacquie and Sal. If it were me, I would have kicked him to the curb at the first sign of anything like gambling debt or inviting the mob in for coffee.
Then again, it wasn’t just them, was it? I had the gravest forebodings about Daniel and Kenny and the bar, and I couldn’t even convince my own business partner not to throw in with them.
But that was a problem for another time.
“So the mob,” I said, “meaning Gio and Izzy and whoever else is part of Syracuse Something LLC—are using Sal’s body shop and Sambuca Ristorante to launder money.”
Mendoza nodded.
“And you’re working undercover to stop them.”
Another nod.
“Good to know,” I said. “I’ll definitely take that under advisement.”
Mendoza looked a little surprised, but he wasn’t the type to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth. “Thank you.”
“Was there anything else you needed?”
He shook his head.
“In that case,” I said, “I think maybe we should call it a night. I have to figure out how to pull the plug on this whole thing without giving anyone too much information.”
Mendoza slipped off the stool and to his feet. “No more dinners at Sambuca, if you don’t mind.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “I’ll make sure Greg takes me somewhere else on Sunday.”
He didn’t respond to that, just ambled toward the back door, the one from the kitchen to the backyard. Edwina got to her feet and followed.
“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “where’s your car?” It wasn’t parked out front, or I would have seen it when Greg and I pulled up.
“Next street over,” Mendoza said, waving at the trees behind the house.
“Why would you cut across someone else’s yard to get here?”
“I didn’t want to drive directly to the house in case anyone was following me. I don’t think they were, but it never hurts to be careful.”
No, it didn’t. “You don’t think they know who you are, do you?”
“I wouldn’t have been allowed to leave if they did,” Mendoza said.
“And what happened tonight didn’t change that?”
He shook his head. “Your back was to Izzy. He didn’t realize that you recognized me.”
“That’s good.”
He nodded. “Just don’t wander into the back of Sambuca again. While he’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he isn’t blind either. If he sees you again, he might get ideas.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“And try not to make a nuisance of yourself in any other way, either.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He pulled the kitchen door open and crossed the threshold onto the terrasse. Edwina darted past his feet and onto the lawn to take care of business. The patch of grass just off the terrasse was lit by motion-activated floodlights, but the trees beyond were dark and off-putting.
“I can get the car out and give you a ride around the block,” I offered, but Mendoza shook his head.
“It’s just a few minutes through the trees. I don’t mind. Just make sure everything here is locked up tight before you go to bed.”
I promised I would. “It was good to see you again, Detective.”
“You too, Mrs. Kelly. Try to stay out of my case from now on.”
He didn’t wait for me to answer, just vanished across the terrasse and into the darkness. I could see the lighter patch of his gray hoodie for a few seconds, and then that was gone, too.
Edwina spent a few seconds staring at the spot where Mendoza had disappeared before she trotted past me and inside, allowing me to close the door and lock it, and check that it was locked, twice, before I could finally sag against it.
“What just happened?”
Edwina tilted her head to contemplate me, then turned and headed across the kitchen and down the hall toward the bottom of the stairs as if the question wasn’t worthy of a response.
When I didn’t follow quickly enough, she stopped at the bottom of the staircase and gave a peremptory bark.
“Coming,” I told her.
Saturday morning found me parked down the street from the house in Charlotte Park, nursing a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm and wishing I’d thought to bring something more substantial for breakfast.
I still hadn’t quite processed the revelations from last night.
The Body Shop was laundering money for the mob, and so was Sambuca.
The police knew about it, and Mendoza was working undercover as a waiter, probably to keep an eye on things.
He had known that I was staking out the Body Shop—although he had denied keeping an eye on it from across the street—so someone was probably undercover there, as well.
One of the mechanics, most likely. There was at least half a dozen of them in addition to Nick, and they were all mostly interchangeable.
After two days of watching, not a one of them had made enough of an impression on me that I would have recognized him on the street.
The implication of everything Mendoza had said was that I should stop watching the Body Shop and let the professionals work.
I’m sure that’s what he’d intended, and expected me to do.
But I had an advance to earn, and a client to convince that her boyfriend wasn’t cheating—but I had to do it without telling Jacquie anything Mendoza had told me.
And so I was here, while Zachary was outside the Body Shop. We were both looking for Nick.
Megan’s silver Accord wasn’t in the driveway. Neither was the other car I’d caught a glimpse of yesterday. The house itself looked quiet, maybe empty, with no lights visible through the windows and no signs of movement.
My phone rang, and I grabbed it from the center console. “This is Gina.”
“Morning.” Zachary sounded tired, which wasn’t surprising given how long he’d had to stick with Nick the previous night. “I’m in position.”
“And?”
“Sal’s here. So are two mechanics, neither of them Nick. No sign of Megan.”
I frowned at the house down the street. “Here, either. So where are they?”
“Beats me. On their way, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Although I doubted it. “How did last night go? I got your text that you were headed home, but it was so late that I didn’t want to ask for details.”
I’d been asleep, in fact, and hadn’t wanted to wake up properly to process a debrief.
Zachary let out a breath. “I can’t believe I thought this job was going to be fun. All we do is sit around and wait.”
Yes. But it was all he had done as doorman at the Apex, too, so it wasn’t as if much had changed.
“Where did you sit around last night?” I asked diplomatically.
“A sports bar in Bellevue. Place called the Tin Roof. They drove there straight from work, and they stayed for hours. Just sitting in a booth, drinking beer, watching the game on TV. And I was outside, so I couldn’t hear a word they were saying.”
“Why were you outside?” He could have gone in, couldn’t he? Sat at the next table and listened? Or watched from the bar, at least?
“I’m under twenty-one,” Zach said sulkily. “And I was watching. I couldn’t let them see me. But it was hours, Gina! And I was starving!”
I had to smile at that. “I’m sorry. You could have ordered delivery?”
“To the parking lot? Are you kidding?”
“I’m sure someone would have brought it out to you if you’d asked.”
“And you don’t think Nick might have found that a little suspicious?”
He might, if he had noticed. But if Zachary had been as close to death as he made it sound, it would have been worth it, I assumed.
“By the time they finally left,” he went on, “around eleven, maybe, I was so hungry I thought I was going to pass out. I had to keep my distance just so they wouldn’t hear my stomach grumble.”
I snickered. “I’m so sorry.”
“You should be. I’m a growing boy; I can’t not eat, Gina.”
“Of course you can’t,” I said soothingly. “What happened then?”