Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 5

  He raised his hands in surrender and sat on the couch. “I teach tennis; that’s all.” I could almost hear the wheels turn in his head as he searched for a believable lie.

  “Cut the crap. I followed you today and waited over two hours while you did the horizontal hula with that bimbo from the club. I don’t care about that. I want to know how long you’ve been screwing Ramona Simonetti, and is it still going on?”

  “She came on to me; I swear it. You saw her. Could you turn her down?”

  “Of course not. No red-blooded man would turn her down. I got excited just watching her practice this afternoon. But, Rey, you’re not paying attention. Read my lips: I. Don’t. Care. About. Her. I only want to know about Ramona.”

  “Did her husband hire you?”

  I snatched him off the couch by the front of his shirt. “Let’s get our roles straight, Rey. I ask the questions; you answer them. How long have you been screwing Ramona?

  I tossed him down and waited while he took a long breath. He eyed me, watching for an opening.

  This guy’s elevator just didn’t go all the way to the top.

  I slapped him with both hands, right, left. The fight went out of his eyes.

  “Mateo, you’re outclassed. You can beat up a hundred-twenty-pound woman, but I’m a professional thug. I don’t like to hurt people, even assholes like you, but I will. Accept that you will tell me; you’ll save us both time and energy.”

  Mateo got the point and started talking. Ramona had been a very naughty girl.

  Chapter 9

  Flamer’s research on Ramona Gamez-Cristobal Simonetti yielded a dozen items, mostly news articles about charity events attended with her prominent husband. Flamer sent me a separate email with an item from a tabloid newspaper that said Ramona was actually a direct descendant of Grand Duchess Anastasia, the youngest daughter of Tsar Nicholas II, the last sovereign of Imperial Russia. Wow. I wasn’t sure how to use that undoubtedly reliable information.

  There was no mention of her in either the traditional press or the tabloids before she and Sam announced their engagement. One society column called Ramona a mystery woman who came from nowhere to be “swept off her feet” by Sam Simonetti. The official story was that she came from a prominent family in Spain or Brazil. Flamer searched websites in Spanish and Portuguese. Nothing. Curiouser and curiouser.

  The logical explanation was that Ramona Gamez’s identity was a fiction. She’d been born under another name.

  I called Tom Collins, Simonetti’s PA.

  “Good morning. How may I help you, Mr. McCrary?” I’d used the phone that let Collins see my caller ID.

  “Call me ‘Chuck.’ Mr. McCrary is my Dad.”

  He laughed politely at the old joke. “Sure, Chuck. If you want Ike, he left yesterday to go fishing in northern Manitoba. No cellphone service.”

  “What do you know about Ramona’s background?”

  “Nothing. I met her once—at Sam’s funeral.”

  “I’ve tried to find background info on her, and there’s nothing before she met Sam.”

  “Join the club. I tried an Internet search before Ike hired you. It’s like she appeared on the planet a few days before she met Sam.”

  “Any evidence she changed her name?”

  “None that I found, but I’m no expert. That’s why Ike hired you.”

  “Good point. You know any connections Ramona may have in California? Friends, relatives, jobs, a former address, anything like that?”

  “California? No, that’s news to me. Why California?”

  “Her Social Security number was issued in California a month before she met Sam.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have magical powers. So why was she in California?”

  “Beats me,” Collins answered. “How’d you get her Social Security number?”

  “Professional secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Can you get me an appointment with Dr. Virgil Norris?”

  “Who?”

  “Virgil Norris. He was Sam’s doctor.”

  “Sure. I’ll text you.”

  I always check clients’ backgrounds. I want to know who I’m working for. When Simonetti did business in Texas, he crossed swords a few times with the EPA regarding disposal of oil exploration by-products. He paid three hefty fines. He also lost two lawsuits from landowners who claimed he cheated them out of leasehold royalties. Three other suits were dismissed when the landowners dropped their claims.

  Simonetti hadn’t told me that, but then I hadn’t asked. So, he wasn’t clean as driven snow. Neither was I.

  Wallace was born Lorraine Huddleston. She married Walter Wallace while she was in med school in Houston. Walter Wallace was a third-generation doctor. Their marriage lasted seven years until he died. Three years after that, Lorraine married Ike Simonetti. I presumed she kept Wallace’s name because that was the name on her medical practice and licenses.

  But there was one background check I didn’t think to run until later, and it almost got me killed.

  Chapter 10

  Rule Number One: When in doubt, ask questions. I needed to interview Ramona.

  Since she didn’t know me, I didn’t call ahead. Why give her a chance to say “no.” I drove to the mansion that Sam bought after their wedding.

  An honest-to-goodness butler answered. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?” A British accent topped it off.

  I handed him my engraved Carlos Calderone business card. “I’ve come to pay my respects to Mrs. Simonetti. I was a friend of Sam’s. I’ve been in Chile the last few months and only learned of Sam’s passing a few days ago.”

  The butler glanced at my Avanti, nodded his approval, and swung the door wide. “Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable. I’m Howley. I’ll tell Madam you’re here.”

  ###

  I envisioned my impeding meeting with Ramona. I can’t take the lead around women when I act for myself. But when I’m in private-eye mode, it’s like another person takes my place. I must be a natural actor. I didn’t anticipate any problem. Ike and I had brain-stormed this meeting. He had sketched out a couple of Sam’s deals for me to mention to explain how I knew Sam. I replayed the details Ike and I had discussed.

  I got as comfortable as I could in a room with furniture that cost more than the GDP of a small emerging-market country. The gold-trimmed double doors with gold-veined mirrors opened, and I stood to greet Ramona.

  Show time!

  It was Howley. He wheeled in a silver cart with the flowers I’d brought for Ramona and a silver coffee service on it. He bowed. “I thought you’d want to present the flowers to Madam yourself, sir.”

  “Thank you, Howley. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  I poured coffee and positioned my cup on the antique table. Of course, I used a coaster; I wasn’t raised in a barn. I was raised near a barn, but not in it.

  A few minutes later, the double doors opened again. Again, I rose to greet Sam’s widow. This time Ramona entered. “Mr. Calderone, how nice of you to come.”

  “Señora Simonetti, Discúlpeme, Señora.” I explained in Spanish that I hadn’t learned of Sam’s passing because I was in Chile. I continued in Spanish, “I brought flowers for you.” I bowed and handed them to her.

  Ramona answered in Spanish without hesitation. “Thank you, Mr. Calderone. I know you would’ve come if you had known.” She gazed at me intently and frowned slightly. “You are much younger than most of Sam’s friends. How did you meet him?”

  “Please, call me ‘Carlos.’ Sam and I did business together a few times. I found the Fifth Avenue Tower deal for him as well as the Port Henry Golf Club.”

  “Really? Sam told me he learned about the Fifth Avenue Tower foreclosure from his banker.”

  Oh, shit. Obviously, there were important details Simonetti hadn’t told me. “I’m the guy that told the banker about it. He put me in touch with Sam.” Please, God, don’t let her know who the banker was. I made a menta
l note to get more details on the deal from Simonetti in case it came up again.

  “So you know Ed Dominquez at First Continental?”

  Just when you think things can’t get any worse. “Not very well. My contact at First Continental was Henry Smith.” There’s got to be a bunch of Smiths at First Continental. “Henry and I had lunch with Ed and Sam at the Wessington Club where we discussed it.”

  “And what did you think of the Fifth Avenue deal?”

  Thank God Simonetti and I discussed that answer. I waggled my hand. “It looked so-so at first, but Sam was able to renegotiate the terms with the mortgage holder. It worked out okay in the end.”

  She appeared satisfied. “Please sit down, Carlos.” She poured a cup of coffee for herself. “I really don’t know much about the businesses Sam owned. Just what he mentioned at the breakfast table. Sam’s son runs those for me now, of course. And please, call me ‘Ramona.’”

  “Of course you wouldn’t know, Ramona. Sam wouldn’t bore a beautiful woman with such details.” I favored her with my best smile. It had been several months since Sam’s funeral, and she might feel a little flirtation was okay.

  She blushed right on cue. “You are too kind, Senor. You were in Chile you say?”

  “Chile and Mexico. An extended business trip.”

  Her carefully concealed native accent was Mexican, not Spanish. “Sam and I loved Chile. We visited Santiago on our honeymoon and then cruised from Valparaiso around Cape Horn to Buenos Aires. It was October here but spring down there. What do you do in Chile, Carlos?”

  “I own a copper mine in the Andes.”

  We discussed our favorite restaurants and tourist sites of Santiago and Valparaiso. I used Mexican rather than Spanish slang and she didn’t notice. I’d spent two summers during college backpacking around Spain, so I knew the regional accents and idioms. My mother had been raised on a rancho near Mexico City and, as a boy, I spent a month there with my grandparents every summer. Ramona’s accent would fool most people, but she wasn’t Spanish; she was Mexican.

  “But my life is boring, Ramona. I’d rather talk about you and Sam. Didn’t someone tell me you were from California?”

  “No, I’m from Spain. What gave you the idea I was from California?”

  “I don’t recall. Perhaps Sam told me?”

  She shook her head. “No, Sam knew I was born in Spain. I came to the United States three years ago. Then I met Sam and decided to stay.”

  I pumped Ramona discreetly for as much personal information as she would give me, which was practically none.

  She lied well. So do I. It’s an occupational requirement. My knowledge of Santiago and Valparaiso had come from the Internet. Simonetti had told me his father had honeymooned in Chile. I’d prepared for this meeting by reviewing honeymoon photos on Sam’s computer that Ike had loaned me.

  I entertained Ramona with true stories about my summers in Spain while we finished our coffee. Unlike our earlier conversation about Chile, she ignored my attempts to compare various Spanish cities. After a while, I asked about the baby. “I’d love to meet your daughter.”

  “Gloria’s taking a nap. Perhaps you could visit us another time? She’s usually awake in the middle of the morning.” She stood and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming, Carlos. These flowers are beautiful.” When she shook my hand, she placed her left hand on my right. And didn’t let go.

  I’d hoped to take something with Gloria’s DNA on it, but no such luck. I tried another tack. “Ramona, I’d love to come back and meet Gloria. I know the perfect occasion. If Sam were alive, and if I’d been in the country, I know he would’ve invited me to her christening. I’d like to get a christening gift for Gloria. Would you please write down her baptismal name so I can have it engraved?”

  “That’s kind of you, Carlos.” She selected pink personal stationery from a burled walnut, antique writing desk and wrote on the engraved sheet with a gold pen. “You are too kind,” she said as she handed me the paper.

  I took it by a corner and placed it in my jacket pocket, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.

  Mission partially accomplished—no DNA, but I had Ramona’s fingerprints. Or would as soon as my lab processed her stationery with ninhydrin.

  Chapter 11

  Mid-afternoon Kennedy Carlson was manning the front desk at Jerry’s Gym. “You’ve got the place to yourself except for a woman you straight guys would call pretty hot.” Ken was gayer than a pocketful of posies and he wasn’t shy about it, but he didn’t broadcast it either. “You may have seen her around for the last couple of weeks. She just became a member. Want me to spot for you?”

  “I’m good, thanks anyway.” I locked my Glock in Ken’s desk, changed, and got to work.

  The woman glanced at me from the leg press station. Ken was right; I’d watched her from a distance ever since she started coming to the gym. I’d seen her when the gym was crowded, but I’d been too nervous to strike up a conversation. But today the gym was almost empty. I finished the bench presses and she glanced my way. I used my third-best smile, the one for social occasions with strangers.

  She smiled with recognition and nodded before she moved to the stair-climber. Her shorts fit so well that I knew she wore bikini underwear. After all, I am a trained observer.

  I started my leg presses and turned the situation with Ramona over in my mind.

  Point one—Ramona Gamez-Cristobal was not her real name. Otherwise, Internet searches would show something from before she met Sam.

  Point two—she wasn’t from Spain, even though her marriage license indicated she was born there. Nobody checks that data. She also showed no interest in or familiarity with Spanish cities and tourist attractions.

  Point two-and-a-half—she was from near Mexico City. She appeared to be late twenties or early thirties, which conflicted with her birth date on the marriage license. Her marriage license said she was forty. Why would she lie? Stranger yet, why would she lie and say she was older. Didn’t woman usually say they were younger if they lied about their age? I made a mental note to discuss that with Vicky. She knew more about women than I did. Actually, everybody but a hermit knew more about women than I did.

  Point three—if she came to the States to run a scam on Sam, she could’ve learned her trade in Mexico. If so, perhaps she had a record in Mexico. But, without a name, I’d have to rely on her fingerprints.

  Point four—I had her fingerprints on the paper with Gloria’s baptismal name.

  I decided to call my Uncle Felix with the Mexican Federal Police as soon as I finished.

  The woman had moved to the leg extension machine near the entrance to the men’s locker room. As I passed, I upgraded to my second-best smile. She smiled back through her timed breaths.

  That looked like an invitation, but I didn’t know how to handle it.

  I stopped a short distance away and watched. She watched me watching her. The sweatband that held back her hair dripped from perspiration, and her tee-shirt showed sweat patches. I could smell her femaleness where I stood. She was no dilettante. She was working out when I started and when I finished. Was she a gym rat like me?

  In my line of work, I get so few opportunities to meet what I think of as “real women.” I watched for a while but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I turned to leave.

  She paused to catch her breath. “I just joined the gym.”

  I stopped in my tracks—deer in the headlights. What am I supposed to do now?

  When I didn’t say anything, she continued. “Ken said you’ve been a member here for some time.” She put a question in her voice.

  “About three years. It’s convenient to my office and townhouse.”

  “I take it Ken owns the place?”

  I nodded. So far, so good.

  She shook her head and little sweat droplets flew off her hair. “Why does he call it Jerry’s Gym?”

  “Ken bought it from a guy named Jerry. Ken jokes that he was too cheap to spring for a
new sign. But the name had some goodwill.”

  She nodded. “Makes sense. If it ain’t broke— You said your office is near here. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  She stood up. “What a coincidence; I’m a cop.” She wiped her hand on a towel and stuck it out. “Teresa Kovacs.”

  We shook hands. “Chuck McCrary. North Shore precinct?” I asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess. It’s only a few blocks from here. You must know Lieutenant Weiner. Mother Weiner was my training officer when we both worked downtown.” We called her “Mother” because she had a Jewish mother attitude. She pretended the nickname annoyed her, but I think it secretly pleased her.

  “Mother’s my training officer too. Small world. When did you leave the job?”

  “Eight months ago, when I became a PI.”

  “I started at North Shore right after you left. Why’d you leave? Not enough money?”

  “No, I make less now; but I have hopes.” Okay, boy, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If you don’t ask; you don’t get. No guts, no blue chips. Stop thinking in clichés. You’re stalling. She’s sending all the right signals; make your move. “It’s a long story. You free for coffee after we shower? Separately,” I added.

  She laughed. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask. Meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes?”

  Whew. She said yes. “Make it twenty,” I countered.

  “Done.”

  ###

  I made it in fifteen. I retrieved my gun from Ken’s desk and waited for Teresa. The after-work crowd began to file in while Ken and I shot the breeze.

  Teresa came out after twenty-five minutes. She looked worth the wait.

  “Sorry I took so long, Chuck.”

  “No problem. I used the extra time to teach Coach how to tie his shoes.” Ken had been a strength coach for an NFL team.

  Teresa looked at Ken. “Is he always like this?”