She was gone when I got up. There was a note on the navigation table. “Call Bill,” was printed in large, neat, letters. I went through my morning rituals, still groggy and slightly stunned by the aftermath of a night that had definitely earned a XXX rating. Over coffee, I pulled the Taurus out of its hideout where I had it wedged against the hull. The faint smell of gun oil reassured me that no moisture had breached the carrying case. I ran my hands over the leather holster. It was brown and supple and the ammo had held its fine brassy finish. I reamed out the barrel, tested the hammer and trigger, then slipped five .38 cartridges into the chambers. I didn’t want to shoot anyone, but I decided not to be too particular the next time someone tried to cut or shoot me.
Bill answered quickly. He recognized my voice even though we had met just the one time.
“So how can I help you, T.K.?”
“Just following up. Anything more on Paul’s case?”
“Not much. Not enough evidence. The M.E. wrote off the bruises and the blood around the injection. The only prints on the hype were his. Nothing else worth noting in the apartment. They checked the cell phone. The numbers all appeared to be clients. Nothing you wouldn’t expect. I spoke with the chief of homicide, asked a few questions. ‘Another damned junkie,’ he said. Told me to forget it.”
“So that’s it? No further investigation?”
His voice got quiet. “Listen, T.K., some of the cops here don’t know what they know and they forget the rest. It’s like employment insurance and it helps with the mortgage.”
I got the message. I told him about Lurch and the fireplug. He said unless I wanted to file a complaint, there was nothing he could do. I didn’t . . . at least not now. Then I asked him about Lurch’s reference to the “Boss Lady”.
“That is a very touchy topic,” he warned. “Can’t tell you much. I know you’re new to the area, but does the name Sirelli mean anything to you? Probably not. You might want to look into it. Look, I gotta go. This is risky. Maybe you shouldn’t call here. Let me call you if anything turns up. Send a message through Sunny and Sara if you need to talk.” He hung up.
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. I didn’t know any Sirelli. It didn’t register with me, but it told me I needed to get smarter. The smartest person I knew other than Sunny was my own personal Oracle of Delphi, the refurbished Dell laptop.
I fired it up and the glowing screen welcomed me in capital letters. The marina Wi-Fi connected and I hit Google search. “Did you mean Pirelli?” Suddenly I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy three tires and get one free. I considered it for a moment, but I didn’t think they’d fit my Schwinn. Maybe another time.
Then I tried Norfolk Sirelli. In an instant, the page filled with sites, most of them from the Norfolk Daily Press. Anthony Sirelli was a former mayor of the city. He had served two four year terms from 1994-2002. Both elections had been landslides. There were several photos of him. The mayor cuts the ribbon at the new hospital. The mayor signs the permits for the new expressway. The mayor with his loving wife and two adorable teen children, a beautiful blond boy and girl. The mayor shakes hands with Bill Clinton. The mayor and Daniel Snyder, owner of the Washington Redskins, etc. etc.
There was nothing remarkable looking about him, an Italian gentleman with a prominent hooked nose, bald on top, gray at the temples. He did have one hell of a smile. The local citizenry had considered him a political wonder, a possible gubernatorial candidate . . . at least until an investigative team of state and local law enforcement found he had been taking kickbacks from contractors who were evidently big fans.
The deputy mayor and several other aficionados went down with him. There were rumors of corruption from the police chief down to the dog catcher, but the courts had their raw meat and the public was worn out. In the end, he plea bargained, avoided any jail time, and retreated to a verdant horse farm in the Virginia countryside . . . of course, not without the stately white columns in front of the obligatory mansion. There’s much to be said for pure southern elegance and the privilege that often accompanies it, not to mention the good ol’ boys network. No recent reports on the pages. Judging from the articles, I would make him at mid to late 70’s. I was sure he and his wife were enjoying a quiet and rewarding retirement.
Next question: What the hell did that have to do with anything? It was old news in more ways than one. Nevertheless, Bill had a reason for leading me in that direction. He had told me not to call him. “Risky” was the word he used. The comments . . . warnings . . . whatever they were . . . had come when I referenced “the Boss Lady.” I didn’t think it was his wife. I would have to wait and kick it around. Maybe Sunny would do that part for me. She was awfully damned good at it.