Double Dealer

Not missing a beat, the woman said, 'Dr. Roy McNeal.'

'You're sure? It has been a long time-'

'He's still my dentist. And Mal was so busy, at work, I always made his appointments for him.'

'Good. Good.'

Clutching her boyfriend's hand, Mrs. Fortunato kept her eyes on Catherine. 'You really think you've found Mal? I mean, after all these years?'

'A body discovered yesterday was wearing this ring-on the third finger of his right hand.'

Annie Fortunato drew in a breath; then she nodded. 'Yes, that's where he wore it. Where did you find him?'

'A vacant lot toward the end of the Strip.'

Eyes tight, Mrs. Fortunato said, 'I know that lot-the one with all the garbage?'

'Yes. A resort's going in. Romanov's.'

'I read about that in the paper,' Hoskins said, as he plucked a tissue from a box on an end table. He handed Mrs. Fortunato the tissue, and she managed a weak smile of thanks, dabbing at her eyes.

'A crew has started to clear the lot,' Catherine said. 'They found the man we believe to be your husband under an old abandoned trailer.'

The woman seemed to have another question that she couldn't quite get out. Catherine leaned in, touched Mrs. Fortunato's arm. 'Yes? What is it, Mrs. Fortunato?'

Shakily taking a cigarette from a pack on the glass end table next to her, the woman lit it, took a deep drag, let it out in a blue cloud, and finally turned her attention back to Catherine. 'Was she with him?'

'She?'

'His whore,' she snarled. 'Was she with him?'

Woah . . .

Catherine said, 'He was alone. We searched the lot thoroughly-no other body was present.'

Patting Mrs. Fortunato's knee, Hoskins-his manner very different now-said to Catherine, 'There was this dancer that some people thought Mal was sleeping with. You know-a stripper.'

'I know about strippers,' Catherine said.

'Slut disappeared the same night Annie's husband did. Annie had some trouble with some . . . uh . . . people Mal owed money, bad debts, you know. They told Annie that Mal had probably just run off with this woman, and they wanted her to give them the money Mal owed.'

Something like a growl escaped Mrs. Fortunato's throat. 'Like I had a goddamn penny to my name, back then. It wasn't until we got Mal declared legally dead after seven years that I got any peace from anybody.'

'These people,' Catherine said, 'were they organized crime?'

'Yeah,' Hoskins said. He shook his head. 'It was different, back then. Mal worked for one of the old-school casinos, Chicago or Cleveland guys owned it . . . they claimed he was skimming. Anyway, some characters who make me look like a fashion model come around a few times, right after Mal . . .'

Struck by how vivid this recapitulation was, Catherine interrupted. 'Excuse me, Mr. Hoskins, were you here, then?'

He shook his head. 'No-but I heard Annie talk about it so much, it's like-'

'Then I need to hear this from Mrs. Fortunato, okay?'

The big guy looked sheepish. 'Oh. Yeah. Sorry.'

Mrs. Fortunato picked up right where he had left off. 'They came around right after Mal . . . disappeared. They made a lot of noise, made me show them my damn bank book. Tax statements, too, they made me show 'em. Wanted to know what safe deposit boxes I had, God. Finally they saw I didn't have the money, and left me alone.'

Catherine nodded. 'They wanted to make sure you weren't in with your husband on the embezzlement.'

Defensively, the woman said, 'It was never proven that Mal stole their money.'

'Mrs. Fortunato, your husband's death is a murder, and it looks like a mob assassination.' Catherine let it go at that; she preferred not to share any details with the woman, not this early in the investigation, anyway.

Mrs. Fortunato took this in blankly, eyes not teary anymore-red, glazed, but not teary.

Catherine said, 'If you're up to it, I'd like to ask you a few more questions.'

'I suppose we should get this over with,' Mrs. Fortunato said, and sighed. 'What do you think, Gerry?'

'Yeah. I'll make us some coffee, okay?'

A tired smile crossed the woman's face. 'Thanks.'

Awkwardly, Hoskins looked from Catherine to the totem pole that was O'Riley. 'Would you people like anything? Coffee? I got diet root beer.'

Catherine said, 'No thank you,' and O'Riley shook his bucket head.

Hoskins swallowed, stood, and went over to O'Riley in his corner. He extended his hand. 'Sorry, man. I shouldn'ta swung on you. It's just that it looked like . . .'

'Forget about it,' O'Riley said, taking the guy's hand.

'Am I gonna get charged with anything? Swinging on a cop like that?'

O'Riley waved it off. 'Simple misunderstanding.'

'Sure you don't want any coffee?'

'I could use some,' O'Riley admitted.

Wanting to keep Hoskins busy, Catherine said, 'Me, too. Thanks.'

Hoskins went into the kitchen and O'Riley melted back into the corner.

'Gerry's been good to me,' Mrs. Fortunato said, her eyes following Hoskins into the kitchen. 'These last years, he helped me survive.'

Catherine pressed forward. 'Mrs. Fortunato, tell me about the day Malachy disappeared.'

Again, not missing a beat, the woman knew: 'January twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-five.'

'Yes. What do you remember?'

'Everything,' Mrs. Fortunato said, stubbing out one cigarette in the ashtray on the end table and immediately lighting up another. 'Mal had been nervous-trouble at work, I figured. He never really told me much about things like that. He always got up early, around five-thirty, and by six-thirty, he was on his way to work. He was dedicated to his job, despite what those people said. Anyway, on that morning, I didn't hear him get up.'

'Go on.'

'I worked late nights, in those days. I was a cashier over on Fremont Street. Mal worked at the Sandmound, in the office, accounting.'

'Excuse me-wasn't your husband a gambler?'

'Oh yes.'

'I thought the casinos didn't hire gamblers for jobs of that nature.'

'No one knew he was gambling . . . except me. He was doing it from phone booths. Calling bookies out east. By the time anyone found out what was going on, him and that dancer had disappeared.' She drew on the cigarette; her eyes glittered. 'I hope the bastards killed her too. She was the one turned him from a guy who liked a friendly bet into a gambler.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, it's obvious. If he hadn't tried to keep us both happy, he wouldn't have stolen that money. He wouldn't have been betting on games trying to make enough money to support two women.'

Catherine frowned. 'So, he really was embezzling? Whether it was proven or not?'

Another shrug-a fatalistic one. 'Why would they lie to me about it? What could they get out of me? They weren't so bad, anyway, for a bunch of goddamn mobsters. I worked in casinos for years, myself.'

Catherine hit from another side. 'Could it have been the bookies he bet with out east that put out a contract on him? Not his bosses at the casino?'

'Your guess is as good as mine.' Mrs. Fortunato snuffed out her latest cigarette. 'You know, in my head, I always hoped he ran off. Then at least, he'd be alive. But in my heart? I knew he was dead.'

Steering her back, Catherine asked, 'About that day?'

The woman stared into the past. 'I got up about ten that morning. Got the paper off the stoop. It didn't always come before Mal left for work. If it did, he brought it in. But that morning it was on the stoop. I picked it up,