Double Dealer

looked toward the carport, and Mal's car was gone, just like it ought to be. So, I went about my business. I read the paper, had some breakfast, called my mom-she was still alive back then-you know, stuff and things.'

Catherine nodded.

'About four-thirty, I decided to go to the grocery store, get something nice for dinner. I hadn't talked to Mal all day, but I expected him home around six or so. It was my day off and he usually came right home on my day off, so we could spend the evening together.' A wistful smile flickered; her eyes grew moist again.

Catherine knew what it was like, loving a louse. 'You must have loved him a great deal.'

Tears overflowing again, she nodded.

Catherine moved up onto the couch and let the woman cry on her shoulder.

After several long moments, Mrs. Fortunato shuddered, then pulled away, mumbling her thanks. Then she spoke quickly: 'I decided to go to the grocery, and went out the back door. We used the back door almost exclusively. I went out and saw this dark red blotch on the gravel of the carport. This was before we paved the driveway. Goddamn asphalt. It's for shit in this heat. But the contractor said it was cheap and I didn't know any better.'

Catherine tried not to rush the woman, but she could see O'Riley getting antsy in the corner.

Hoskins returned, carrying a tray with four cups and sugar and cream.

The woman said to him, 'I was just telling them about the asphalt.'

'Contractor was a goddamn crook,' he said and went back into the kitchen for the coffee.

'You saw the dark red blotch,' Catherine prompted.

'Yeah, yeah, and I just knew. I looked at it close and I just knew it was drying blood. I came right back in the house and called the police.'

Hoskins brought in the coffee. They each took a cup and he poured. Mrs. Fortunato used lots of sugar and some cream, Hoskins only the cream, while O'Riley and Catherine drank theirs black. Much better than the break- room swill.

Catherine thanked Hoskins, as did O'Riley-she noticed a tiny tremor in the cop's big hand. She turned back to Mrs. Fortunato. 'So, you called the police.'

'Yes. They came, took a sample of the blood, and were never able to tell me anything. They never even found Mal's car.'

'The report said that the police returned your husband's personal effects.'

The woman nodded.

'There was no inventory in the report-I was curious what they had of his.'

'Gerry, could you get the box? You know where it is.'

Hoskins left the room again.

'When the cops brought back the box,' the woman said, 'I barely opened it. Mostly it was junk from Mal's desk at work.' An edge was creeping into her voice. 'One of the things they found, though, was a letter to him from his whore. That's what made them think he ran away with her.'

Hoskins came back in carrying a plain brown cardboard box and handed it to Catherine.

'May I take this with me?' she asked.

The woman scowled. 'Be my guest. And do me a favor-this time, don't bring it back. There's nothing in that box I ever want to see again. That was the property of a different man-not my Mal.'

Accepting the box, Catherine asked, 'By the way, did Malachy smoke?'

'No, not ever. He thought it was a filthy habit.' She glanced at the cigarette in her hand. 'Ironic, huh? I'd quit smoking 'cause of him . . . then when he disappeared, started in again. Nerves.'

'I'm sorry, Mrs. Fortunato, but I have to ask you one more question.'

'Yes?'

'Can you tell me the name of the dancer your husband was involved with?'

Mrs. Fortunato's jaw set, her lips whitened. She stabbed out the cigarette, repeatedly jabbing it into the ashtray, sending up a small shower of sparks.

Hoskins said, 'Joy Starr.'

'Why do you need her name?' Mrs. Fortunato asked.

'We'd like to talk to her,' Catherine said. 'But first we'll have to find out what became of her.'

Hoskins offered, 'Annie never knew if that was her real name, or just a stage name. . . . But she worked at a place called Swingers. It's still there-way down south on Paradise Road.'

Catherine knew the place. 'Okay, Mr. Hoskins-thanks.' She turned to the woman. 'Thank you, Mrs. Fortunato, for your time and patience. I know this has been difficult. We'll be looking into your husband's murder, now, so we may have more questions later.'

Catherine held out her hand and the woman grasped it, warmth in her grip. The stoniness in Mrs. Fortunato's face seemed to melt away.

'Somehow,' the woman said, 'I feel . . . better. Thank you.'

When the cop and the criminalist got outside into the July heat, O'Riley stopped Catherine, near her car.

'Thanks for doin' my job in there. And, uh . . . well, just thanks.'

She gave him a look.

The crew-cut head shook, and he blew out wind. 'I was ready to draw down on the S.O.B.'

'Forget it, Sarge. Could have happened to anyone.'

Catherine noticed a slight shudder in O'Riley's hands as the detective got into his car. After placing the box of Malachy Fortunato's effects in the backseat, she climbed into the Tahoe and phoned Nick.

'Nicky, Malachy's our mummy. Get the address of a dentist named Roy McNeal and get back to me. I want to pick up Fortunato's dental records before I come back to the office.'

'Cool,' Nick said. 'Get right back to you.'

She sat in the SUV and studied the house as she waited for Nick's call. So Malachy didn't smoke, and at the time of his disappearance, his wife wasn't a smoker, either. A cigarette butt in the backyard could mean somebody waited for Malachy Fortunato to leave the house, that morning fifteen years ago. . . .

He lit the cigarette, clicked the Zippo closed, and leaned against the house as he took a long drag. Dew still clung to the new sod. Grass probably wouldn't last long here, but they always seemed to make the effort when they put up one of these new homes. The house he stood behind had been built within the last six months and only inhabited for the last two. The mark inside, some guy named Fortunato, had pissed off the wrong people.

Houses on either side held families that still slept peacefully. Behind the house, where he now stood puffing away on his Marlboro, the backyard butted up against one from the next block. Those homes, however, had not been completed, and the construction crews hadn't yet arrived to begin the day's work. So he had the neighborhood to himself. . . .

Fortunato's schedule seemed etched in stone. For the week the hitter had been watching him, the mark had left the house within a two-minute window, every morning. The hitter loved a clockwork guy. Same time, same path, everyday, an invitation for someone to cap a poor, sad son of a bitch.

He took another drag, let the smoke settle in his lungs, then slowly blew it out through his nose. Glancing at his watch, he smiled. Plenty of time to enjoy this cigarette, no reason to rush. Finish the smoke, put on his gloves, then go to work.

Taking one last drag, the hitter held it in for a long time before blowing the smoke out and stubbing the butt into the yard with his foot. He pulled the gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Rotating his head, he felt the bones in his neck crack as he loosened up; then he checked his watch one last time.

Time to punch the clock.

He withdrew his automatic from its holster, checked the clip, then screwed on the silencer. He shifted slightly so he could see around the corner. No target yet. Ducking back, he slowed his breathing, waited. . . .

The mark walked out of the door, closed it, then the screen, and turned to his car. The hitter came up behind Fortunato, squeezed the trigger and felt the small pistol buck in his hand. A tiny flower of red blossomed from the back of the mark's head. Didn't even have time to yell, simply folded in on himself and dropped.