To my mind, that was precisely what Angelo Salierno had been after all along-to become too outwardly boring to warrant much media attention, and too insulated legally to be touchable by the police.
That he had finally come to my attention, therefore, shouldn’t normally have been of great interest to the Dour Don. No single hovering police officer, even from such a metropolitan hot spot as Brattleboro, was worth the time of day, especially without a warrant.
Unless that officer had a hook.
The street Salierno lived on in River Forest was predictably impressive-broad, silent, smelling of flower beds and closely cropped grass. The homes were different in style-English Tudor, fake Southern Plantation, Modern Confused-and more or less discreet, running from totally walled estates to five-thousand-square-foot architectural wedding cakes perched on huge weedless green patches for all the world to see.
The address I was after was predictably retiring: an ivy-covered brick wall, topped by broken glass-along with less visible, more lethal deterrents, no doubt. It was pierced by a single large wrought-iron gate, guarded by a gray intercom perched on a pole.
I parked in front of the gate, feeling self-conscious, convinced that everyone was watching me, although the street to my back looked perfectly normal.
I leaned out the window and stabbed the button under the speaker grille.
“Who is it?” The voice was male and unfriendly.
“My name is Joe Gunther. I’m a lieutenant with the police department in Brattleboro, Vermont.” I figured honesty might suit me best, considering the people I was addressing.
“Got a warrant?”
“No, but I know why Tommy Salierno was killed.”
There was a long pause. “Wait.”
I stood there, feeling the sun gentle on my left shoulder, aware of a lawn mower working steadily some distance away and the sounds of songbirds in the trees lining the street. Ten minutes later a broad-shouldered man in a tight dark suit walked down what I could see of the drive. He stopped on the other side of the massive gate, his eyes in constant motion, taking in as much of the surroundings as possible-a habit I’d seen in Secret Service agents.
“Got any credentials?”
I exited the car, pulled my badge and ID from my inner pocket, and handed them over.
He took his eyes off the scenery long enough to scrutinize my paperwork with an intensity worthy of an art expert. He finally handed them back. “Go to the coffeehouse six blocks that way and two blocks left and wait.” He jerked a thumb up the street, turned on his heel, and marched back out of sight.
I did as I was told, finding a parking place diagonally across the street from the Cup-N-Saucer, which looked like a typical gathering spot for regulars, located on a standard version of a small-town main street. Like other sections of Chicago, this area had blocks that looked transplanted from central Iowa, right next to others that rivaled Beverly Hills.
There’d been no indication of how long I should wait, so I figured I’d better make myself comfortable. I chose a rear booth, sat so I could watch the front door, and ordered a hamburger and a milk shake for lunch.
Over the next two and a half hours, nursing a countless string of coffees, I watched people come and go-mostly go, after the noontime rush-never seeing anybody who struck me as unusual. I pegged most of them to be either retired people, traveling reps on break, or the rarer local office worker running in for a quick cup of something hot and stimulating.
It was therefore pretty obvious when the first of my expected company walked in. Not only was he built like a wrestler in a loose-fitting sports shirt-which conveniently hid anything tucked underneath-but he appeared from the hallway behind me, leading to the rest rooms and the storage room beyond. He, too, had those shifty, watchful eyes. He parked himself in a booth not too far away.
A second man, thinner, with a light jacket, entered the front and sat at the counter. A third walked to the only occupied booth not far from me, spoke inaudibly to the two old men who were chatting there, and apparently asked them to leave, which they did without comment. Finally, a last one appeared, gestured to the short-order cook and the sole waitress, muttered a few words to them, and escorted them out the door, flipping the CLOSED sign around and drawing the shade as he did so.
By this time, the hair on the back of my neck was rigid. Nobody spoke to anyone. The guards stayed at their posts. My coffee and my confidence began getting cold.
Finally, a shadow appeared at the front door, there was a gentle knock, and the last man in opened up, ushered in an older man wearing a dark three-piece suit, and locked the door again.
The newcomer I recognized by his newspaper photos-he was a little more stooped, the face a touch heavier and more lined, but the eyes were still sharp behind the thick glasses. He walked down the center of the coffee shop and stopped in front of my table. I stayed put, my hands on either side of my cup.
“May I see some identification?”
I pulled out my credentials again, and he read them carefully before handing them back. “Gunther doesn’t sound like a Vermont name.”
“I was born there, as were my father and grandfather.”
He nodded like a thoughtful banker. “The melting pot, of course.” He finally slid onto the bench opposite mine. “My name is Bonatto; I am Mr. Salierno’s adviser. Why have you come to see us?”
I knew-unlike when I’d been with Shattuck-that I was of value to this man. His presence here proved that. My strength, therefore, would come from carefully fanning those embers I’d inadvertently brought back to life, letting their energy do most of my work for me.
I decided to stay away from Tommy Salierno for openers. “Mr. Salierno’s name has been connected to a double homicide in Vermont.”
Bonatto played along. “Mr. Salierno has never been to Vermont.”
“The connection was made in Chicago. One of the victims I’m referring to had an operation here over twenty years ago, before being killed shortly thereafter in Vermont. He listed Mr. Salierno as the one to contact in case of an emergency.”
Bonatto’s eyes were very still, in contrast to his men’s, and looked directly into mine. “Over twenty years ago? What kind of operation?”
“Knee surgery.”
“What was this man’s name?”
“We don’t know. He used an alias.”
A flicker of impatience crossed the older man’s face. He tried a bluff. “Well, Lieutenant, I don’t see where any of this concerns us…”
“The surgery was to repair a massive gunshot wound-from a.45.”
The caliber seemed to mean something to him. “When was this operation?”
“October 10, 1969, twenty-four hours before Tommy Salierno was reportedly found dead.”
He looked at me hard for a moment, then smiled, ignoring the reference to Tommy. “I must admit, I find all this very confusing. Do you think Mr. Salierno’s name was used as a joke of some kind?”
I let him go with it. “Why would that be a joke?”
Bonatto spread his hands. “Because we haven’t the slightest idea what this is all about. Perhaps your homicide victim with the anonymous name picked Mr. Salierno at random.” He paused. “I am curious, though… How does a shooting and some surgery in Chicago concern a policeman from Vermont, especially after such a long time?”
I shrugged, pleased at his interest. “One thing leads to another.”
Bonatto absorbed that for a few seconds. “You mentioned a double homicide.”
I rose to my feet, acutely aware of Fuller’s photograph in my pocket and of the fact that I didn’t want to go too far into such details with this man-at least not yet. My purpose here had been to see if I could stimulate any interest-and that had been achieved. “Yes, that’s right. It’s a complicated case-the double homicide is only part of it. There’s a third person, still alive, who took a few shots at me a while back. Which maybe makes him the killer, and maybe not. But since you and Mr. Salierno are apparently uninvolved, I might as well leave it at that.” My rising caused every shifty eye in the place to lock on me-especially my hands-which I kept clearly in the open. “Good-bye.” I walked to the door and was blocked unobtrusively by the bodyguard at the counter sliding off his stool and standing in my way.