dapper angelic white.
“And then,” I said, almost to myself, “his daughter steps in. Dominic replaced by Dominique....”
Chic called, “Put up the daughter’s pic, Sharon, would you?”
But Sharon had anticipated the request, and Chic’s question was only half-asked when the image of Dominique Muerta loomed from the screen, a dark-haired woman in her early thirties, sleekly beautiful but something hard around the thin, well-shaped lips and something cold in the dark almond eyes.
More images of her followed, surveillance photos mixed with wire-service ones, all painting a sophisticated, successful picture of a modern businesswoman.
Chic was saying, “Brilliant executive, by all accounts, Dominique Muerta...well-educated, respected by the business community. New generation of Muerta who recognized that enterprises entered into, years ago, as fronts and money laundries had become profitable in their own right. Enormously so. Chiefly, entertainment....”
“Like illegal gambling,” I said lightly, “and narcotics and child porn?”
Chic turned to Rafe. “When’s the last time the Muertas were implicated in any of those, Lieutenant?”
Rafe’s admission may have been reluctant, but it did support Chic’s thesis: “Not since cancer took the old man out.”
Again Chic called back to the policewoman. “Sharon? Would you put up those Muerta Enterprises images?”
“Certainly, Captain.”
And the screen illustrated Chic’s words as he said, “As I tell our troops, Muerta Enterprises is an ever- expanding international network of hotels, theaters and casinos—legal ones. Magazine publishing, music business, Internet...”
Rafe smirked humorlessly. “Nice to know the mob’s gone digital.”
“Only numbers that count to those bastards,” I said, “have dollar signs.”
“Maybe so,” Chic said, “but that’s the American dream, isn’t it, Ms. Tree? They started on the streets, like these current gangbangers...and now they’ve climbed the ladder.”
“Maybe,” I allowed. “Now the question is, whose window are they climbing in?”
*
The three of us continued our discussion over dinner, since it occurred to me I hadn’t eaten for nine or ten hours.
Mike Ditka’s was as upscale as its namesake’s image wasn’t, a male bastion of rich wood, polished brass, and sports memorabilia displayed with just a little more pomp than religious relics at the Vatican. We were tucked into a leatherette booth where we were enjoying after-dinner coffee, having disposed of a filet (me), Da Pork Chop (Rafe) and roasted chicken (Chic).
Chic was saying, “We’ve looked under every rock in town, trying to show the Muertas are still connected to organized crime—to establish that the ‘new leaf’ Dominique turned over is strictly cosmetic.” He shrugged. “Nada.”
“They’re going to hide it deep,” I said. “There’ll be more layers than an onion.”
The OCU captain made a face. “So far, peeling ‘em has only made me weep...plus earned me more new orifices than I know what to do with.”
Rafe frowned. “How so?”
“I’ve had the brass warn me off the Muertas three times in the last six months. Twice orally and, most recently, in writing.”
I swallowed a sip of black coffee. “Maybe more than just the Muertas are connected.”
But Chic shook his head. “No. That’s not it. It’s not that the brass are bent, any of ‘em; it’s more that the Muertas’ attorneys have stopped just short of filing official complaints about harassment. Dominique was a big contributor to the mayor’s campaign, last go-round, y’know....”
“I rest my case,” I said.
Rafe’s eyes were tight as he said to Chic, “Isn’t there one thing you’re leaving out, buddy?”
Chic didn’t seem to follow that. “What?”
“You know.”
“Oh....Hell, you’re not starting
I asked, “Starting what?”
Chic waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a theory Homicide came up with. But OCU can’t get any traction on it, Ms. Tree...though God knows we’ve tried.”
Rafe leaned forward, insistent, his eyes going from me to Chic and back again. “Not a theory. These are
Chic nodded and sighed, then said, “Yes, the deaths are real enough. But there’s no sign that this so-called ‘Event Planner’ is—”
“Event planner?” Now I was sitting forward. “What, like weddings?”
Rafe said, “More like funerals.”
Chic drew in a breath and let it out and, reluctantly, explained. “Idea is the Muertas have a sort of...hitman once removed, who arranges for people to be eliminated in such a way that no mob involvement is indicated or even suspected.”
Rafe picked it up. “Clean hits that don’t seem to be hits at all, ‘cause they are tidy and tied up...leaving nothing for us poor public servants to investigate.”
“Why ‘Event Planner?’ ” I asked.
“Because these aren’t standard hits, they don’t even look like hits at all—accidents, even murders, but not professional killings. A local politician with national potential—and a strong anti-organized crime background— commits suicide because of an affair. A lawyer in a major civil case gets struck down in traffic at a most convenient time for certain parties. And on and on, including a certain accountant who suddenly starts cheating again, getting himself knocked off by whack-job wifey. There’s more, and I’d bet a year’s pay the seven or eight we know about are just the tip of the goddamned iceberg.”
I returned my attention to Chic. “You obviously aren’t buying into this. Why?”
But I didn’t get a straight answer from Captain Steele until ninety minutes or so later, at my apartment, without Rafe Valer around.
“It’s bad police science,” Chic said. “No offense to Rafe, who is a hell of a detective, but you don’t
*
As we spoke, Chic was sitting on the edge of my bed in his boxer shorts, getting a cigarette going. He had a nice tan, or what was left of it from our week on Maui, and he was clean and smooth, not like Mike, who’d had hair not just on his chest but his back, a burly bear, whereas his former partner on the PD had a cat-like sleekness.
I was on the bed next to him, sitting up with a pillow behind me. I was wearing a little black nightie, the wispy kind that doesn’t need to come off to accomplish what we’d just done not so long ago.
“And this ‘Event Planner’ idea,” I said, “it’s a notion Rafe came up with himself?”
“Yeah.”
Chic stood. He crossed to a nearby chair where his clothes were draped and began to put them on. He moved with easy grace and confidence, completely unselfconscious.
“In the past five years,” he said, stepping into his trousers, “there have indeed been seven or eight deaths, linked in one way or another to the Muertas.”
“Linked?”
He shook his head. “Not in that way, Michael—these are deaths that have
“Oh. Like Richard Addwatter’s wife hearing voices and killing her philandering husband? When the Muertas are Addwatter Accounting clients?”
