Play it down, p.13
Play It Down, page 13
Woody stared back at him, his eyes narrowed. “You know how many times we’ve been told by a suspect he doesn’t own a gun?”
Joe’s eyebrows came down tight over his eyes. “So, I am a suspect?”
Woody looked away without answering. “Joe, as I already told you: It just doesn’t look good, you being here like this. If I didn’t know any better…” He paused. “I’m just not sure you’re telling me everything I need to know.”
Joe knew that was fair enough. He hadn’t told Woody everything. Not even close. But that didn’t make him guilty. “How many people murder someone and then call the police?”
“How many people break into two homes and find two dead bodies, all within a couple of days?” Woody started to walk away, toward the stairs, then stopped and turned to Joe. “I’m sorry, Joe. But I’m going to need you to come downtown and answer some serious questions. I’m trying to cut you a break, but—”
“I didn’t even break in,” Joe said. “The doors were already open. Both times. Either way, what else do you want me to tell you?” Joe thought about Nick Juliano but didn’t have enough to share with Woody. For the time being, he wanted to keep it to himself until he could dig a little deeper, even if it meant Woody suspecting Joe was holding back.
Woody stared back at him. “I need to get back up there, see how my detective’s making out.” He looked at his watch and gave him a nod. “You can get out of here for now. But don’t go far. I’d appreciate it if you’d come down to headquarters tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Don’t make me come looking for you.”
Joe drove straight to Dickie’s house from the apartment and called him on the way, but Dickie didn’t pick up. When he got there, he pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage door on the right.
Dickie lived in a long ranch-style home with white stucco siding and brown trim. The yard was well-lit in the darkness, showing off the professional landscaping with flowering trees around the concrete water fountain in front. The lights shined on the grass, and Joe could see how green it was from all the chemicals Dickie liked to use.
Joe joked to him he’d get cancer just looking at it.
He walked up the stone steps and peeked in through the window to the right of the door, and saw Dickie slumped over on the couch in front of the TV, his chin thick, doubled up, tucked into his chest.
It made Joe nervous at first, pounding on the door and ringing the doorbell at the same time. But he was relieved to see Dickie jump to his feet, alarmed like he didn’t know where he was.
The door opened, and Dickie stood staring out at him, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Joey? What are you… What time is it?”
“Nine forty-five.”
Dickie looked out toward the driveway, like he still hadn’t fully woken up, then finally pushed open the door. “Come in, will ya?” He walked toward the couch, picked up the remote and turned down the volume on the TV.
“Sorry to wake you,” Joe said, stepping into the house. He looked at the TV. The Miami Heat were playing the Boston Celtics.
“I must’ve passed out,” Dickie said, scratching the top of his head. He started toward the kitchen. “So, what’s the story?”
Joe followed him. “The story?”
“Yeah, I mean… what’s the latest?” He pointed toward the counter with the four stools facing the other direction toward where Dickie had a new TV up on the wall over the refrigerator. “You want a drink?” He pulled a bottle of vodka down from the cabinet. “I actually picked up some cranberry juice, in case you came by.”
Joe sat down on a stool and looked across the counter at Dickie on the other side. He had a crooked grin on his face, knowing the last time they saw each other the conversation was a bit uncomfortable. “A drink sounds good right now.”
Dickie dropped a few ice cubes into a glass and filled it with vodka, topped it off with cranberry juice, the way Joe liked it. He slid the glass across the counter. “Sorry, no limes.”
Joe reached for the glass and took a sip. “Suzanne Peters’ neighbor was murdered tonight.”
Dickie was making himself a martini, his eyes on the glass, but stopped and looked up at Joe. “You shittin’ me?”
“No. Young kid too. I mean, he wasn’t a kid but young, you know? A young man.”
“How’d you hear this?”
Joe took another sip, looking at Dickie from over the rim of the glass. “I found him.”
“You found him?“ Dickie poured vermouth into the silver mixing cup with the vodka and ice. He gave it a dash of olive juice. “That can’t look good for you, Joey.”
“Woody was there. Maybe I made a mistake, calling them.”
“The cops?” Dickie said, pouring the drink into the martini glass. “So what’d you do? After you found him?”
“What’d I do?” He shrugged. “I called the cops?”
“And what exactly did they say?”
Joe took a good drink this time, got down to at least a third of what was poured, then placed the glass down on the counter. “I don’t know. Woody was doing his best to keep me out of trouble, but then he asked me to go down the station in the morning. I’m trying not to be too worried. The guy that calls the cops isn’t usually the suspect, right?”
“Well, I think you need to be careful,” Dickie said. “You want Stanley to go with you?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t need a lawyer for this. Not yet. But maybe give him a heads-up I’m going down there? In case I change my mind?”
Dickie leaned with his elbows on the counter, looking Joe in the eye. “Listen, Joey. I’m glad you came by. Because, I mean, I know you don’t want to do this work for me anymore. I get it; you don’t like it. Especially the way shit like this goes down, you get yourself all mixed up in something bad… it’ll put a little scare into the best of ’em. But, I just… I hope you’ll think about it a little more. Maybe once you get through this and—”
“No,” Joe said. “I’m done, Dickie. I just want to make sure we can still be friends. The thing is, and I told you this already, I never intended to become this goon I’ve become.”
“Who said you were a goon?”
“Come on, Dickie. You know that’s where it was heading. It’s just not my bag. It’s the wrong side of the line.”
“What line?”
“The line. The law. Whatever you want to call it. Good and bad. You know what I’m saying.“ Joe looked toward the floor. “And, honestly, Dickie, how much longer are you going to keep doing this? How many more years do you have in you?” He lifted his phone and pointed at the screen. “I can place a bet on my phone in two minutes.”
Dickie shook his head. “I’m not worried about it. There are always going to be the schmucks who gamble, like Craig Peters, but don’t have the money to put up. That’s why I’m still in business. It’s why I’ll always be in business.” He gave Joe a crooked smile. “I gotta admit, having a guy like you with brains and a little brawn to go with it… it’s not easy to come by.” He sipped his drink. “But I hear what you’re saying.”
Joe picked up his glass and finished what was left, looking at the TV on above the fridge. Dickie had the same basketball game on as he did in the other room. “Listen, though,” he said. “I was hoping you could tell me what else you know about Nick Juliano? I went by his office today.”
“You what?“ Dickie’s eyes popped wide open. “Why the hell would you do something like that? You like putting your nuts in a vise?”
Joe told him what had happened at the Siskey warehouse, and wondered if it had something to do with the kid Brad getting plugged. “But I don’t understand why he’d kill him.”
“Who?”
“The kid across the hall.”
Dickie said, “Oh. Is that where he was? Across the hall?”
Joe wasn’t sure Dickie was always listening to him. “I told you, he lived across the hall from Suzanne. But he was on the toilet when I walked in. Someone shot him in the head.”
Dickie shook his head, rolling his eyes. “What a way to go, huh?”
Joe got up from the stool and walked to the sliding glass door. He looked into the backyard lit up so bright with floodlights, like it was in the front, that it almost looked like daytime. Dickie had a pool he hardly used, with cobblestone taking up most of the yard inside the tall wooden privacy fence, with full-grown palm trees in each corner and tall shrubs outside the fence to create plenty more privacy.
“I didn’t mention anything about Nick Juliano,” Joe said. “And I don’t think I should, until I can dig in a little deeper.” He turned from the door.
Dickie made him another drink and came around from the other side of the counter. “Maybe it’d be smart to just keep your mouth shut. I mean, I didn’t think you’d go knocking on his door, show up at his office like you did.”
Joe was a little confused. “But you’re the one who told me. You said it yourself, you didn’t think he was connected.”
“I was just saying,” Dickie said. “I don’t know if he is or he isn’t. But it doesn’t mean he won’t take matters into his own hands, the way his grandfather did.” He held up his martini glass in front of his lips. “You know, you don’t go around bragging about who you are or who you know, like they used to in the old days. Not unless you want the FBI up your ass everywhere you turn.”
Joe took his drink from Dickie and placed it down on the counter without taking a sip. “So, what you’re saying is there’s a good chance he’s not as clean as he wants people to think?”
“I’m not saying one way or the other. But you never know what a man’ll do if someone steals from him.”
Joe picked up the glass and took a good drink. “I guess it was pretty foolish of me to take my car over to his office.”
Dickie nodded. “Of course it was foolish. That’s not like you, make such a stupid move.” He wagged his finger at Joe. “See, you got yourself all into helping this broad, and she’s not even alive anymore.” He squinted his eyes. “You sure they saw your car? I mean, I assume you didn’t park it right out front, right?”
Joe felt like a chump. “I parked right next to Juliano’s parking space.”
Dickie rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “And you’re sure nobody followed you out of there?”
“I’m fairly certain.”
“Fairly certain?“ Dickie said. “Have you been back to your apartment since you went there?”
“Since I was at Juliano’s office?” Joe shook his head. “No, not yet.”
Dickie pulled at his chin. “So you have no idea if he’s got someone trying to track you down?”
Joe shrugged. “I can’t imagine they’d—“
“You don’t think they’d come looking for you? Why? Just because you used a fake name?” He nodded toward Joe. “You want the Glock?”
Joe didn’t answer, thinking for a moment. “Maybe it’s time I come clean with Woody, tell him everything I know.”
“Who the hell’s Woody?” Dickie said.
“Sergeant Woody Thomas.”
Dickie smiled. “Look at you, huh? First-name basis with another cop?”
Joe didn’t respond.
“As we’ve talked about, Joey, you start telling the cops your business—our business—all you’re gonna do is open a can of worms. The best thing you can do right now is watch your ass and keep your mouth shut. Period.”
Chapter 18
Joe sat down in the small wood chair with the worn leather seat, facing Sergeant Thomas’s empty metal desk. With his back to the door, he sipped a coffee from a Styrofoam cup and looked at the framed photos on the wall—the one of Woody and Bart together catching his eye. They were kids. Even though Bart was an officer with the Miami-Dade Police and Woody was with the City of Miami Police, the two had been friends for at least as long as they’d each worn the uniform. Another photo was of Woody in a military uniform with a rifle in one hand, standing in what looked like a desert.
Joe turned and looked over his shoulder when he heard someone at the door.
Woody had walked in with a folder in his hand and sipped from a mug with the Jacksonville Jaguars logo printed on it. “Thanks again for coming down, Joe.” He pushed the door closed behind him with his foot and stepped around to his desk, placing the mug next to the landline phone. He sat, opened the folder, and flipped through the papers inside.
Joe had his eyes back on the photo of Woody and Bart. “How long ago was that taken?” He was curious, but also asked so he could hopefully lighten up the mood, get in some small talk before they got serious. It was something he used to do when he was a reporter, to loosen up the subject he was interviewing for a crime story.
Woody turned in his leather desk chair and looked up at the framed photos behind him on the wall. He nodded and turned to Joe with a small grin on his face. “That photo was taken thirty-one years ago. I remember it like it was yesterday. Me and Bart… we were barely old enough to buy beers.” He picked up his mug and took a sip, looking down over the top of it at the papers in the folder. “All right, Joe. Let me just make it clear, before we go any further, this has nothing to do with you being a suspect at this time. So I don’t want you to be too concerned. Of course, it doesn’t mean there are no issues with the fact you were present for two homicides, but—”
“Can we be clear that I wasn’t present when they actually occurred? I know it’s a minor detail, but...”
“Right,” Woody said. “What I mean is, of course, it’s not something we can completely ignore. I’m sure you understand.”
Joe said. “Are you telling me I’m a person of interest?”
Woody clasped his hands together on top of the papers. “You’re someone who we believe should be able to shed some light on what the hell this is all about. And, of course, what happened with you and Bart back at your apartment can’t be overlooked, either.”
Joe sat forward in his chair and nodded, licking his dry lips as he picked up the Styrofoam cup of cold coffee. He took a sip, and it didn’t taste very good. He wished he’d just asked for water. “So, if I’m not exactly a suspect”—he gave a slight grin—“then is Craig Peters your only suspect?”
Woody picked up the papers in the folder and held them up. “We’re looking into everything right now, Joe. But with Peters on the run from us, well… innocent people don’t normally run.”
“Innocent don’t run?” Joe said, knowing it was not nearly enough to go into court and point a finger at a suspect because he hid from the police.
Woody gave him a look, squinting, like he didn’t like being questioned. “More often than not.”
Joe grinned, picked up the cup and tried another sip. “It’s just… I believe there could be others out there, besides Craig Peters.”
Woody said, “We have enough reason to believe Craig Peters is responsible for the killing of both his wife and her neighbor. But it doesn’t mean the case is closed, Joe. We’re still investigating all possible leads.”
Joe thought for a moment, still not certain he should open his mouth. But he wasn’t sure he had a choice. “What about Nick Juliano?”
“Nick Juliano?” Woody leaned back in his chair. “What about him?”
Joe said, “You know who he is?”
Woody seemed hesitant but nodded after a brief pause. “He’s not the man his grandfather was, if that’s what you’re getting at. But other than having a surname most people around here recognize, he’s never even stepped foot in this place. Other than as a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“Siskey Foods donates a lot of money to law enforcement in this city. He also supports plenty of charities throughout the area.”
“Of course he does,” Joe said, holding back from rolling his eyes. “And I assume you’re already aware Craig Peters worked for Siskey?”
Woody nodded. “Of course we know that. But it was a short stint. In fact, we’ve already inquired about it. The fact is, he quit. Actually, he stopped showing up for work.”
Joe shifted in his seat, wondering if it was smart sharing something with the sergeant he had little concrete proof of. “What if Nick Juliano had something to do with these murders? And I don’t mean just the two. There’s also the one up in Miami Gardens. You know the name Wendy Johnson?”
Woody shook his head. “Should I?”
“She was murdered up there.”
“Well, we don’t get involved up that way. Miami Gardens has their own police force.” He leaned with his elbows on the desk, his hands folded in front of his mouth. “Can you explain to me what would make you think Nick Juliano, a law-abiding citizen who has always been supportive of the Miami Police, is a murderer?”
Joe said, “Well, I know this is probably going to look bad if I tell you what I’m about to tell you, but, I was there the night Wendy Johnson was murdered. I was in the parking lot.”
Woody stared back at Joe and held up three fingers. “Three? You were present for three murders?” He closed his eyes, rubbing his face with both hands. “Please tell me you’re not serious about this, Joe.”
“I’d love to tell you that. But, I swear… I had nothing to do with that one, either.”
“Let me guess. You’re the one who called the police?”
“I was. But, here’s the thing. This woman, Wendy Johnson, was involved with Craig Peters. Not in a romantic or any kind of a sexual way. Not that I’m aware of, at least. I mean, for his sake, I hope not.”
“Are you going to tell me how Nick Juliano fits into any of this?”
Joe nodded. “I wasn’t going to mention it yet because I don’t have the whole story yet. But, if what I’ve heard is true, Craig Peters and this woman, Wendy Johnson, were involved in some kind of scheme when she was managing the National Pancake House. Craig was delivering for Siskey.”
Sergeant Thomas stared back at Joe for a good few moments, like he didn’t know what to say. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he said. “Tell me about this alleged scheme you somehow have some kind of inside knowledge about.”
