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Authors: Timothy C. Phillips
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and shook his head.
“Everything is moving towards being green and eco-friendly, right? Well, anyway, you’ve got the entire file, here. Let’s see, now. Ah, here’s what you’re looking for. Apparently, someone wanted to question some gorgeous young redhead in connection with her husband’s demise.”
“Redhead?” I asked as Tiller slid the photo across to me. There, looking up at me, was a younger, slightly more doe-eyed, and undeniably beautiful, Mary Wiggins, nee Silvers, apparently.
“That’s her, all right.”
“Quite a looker. Your suspicions are now confirmed, I believe. So, I take it that lovely young Mary here had not informed her new husband about her former husband’s demise?”
“It’s more than that. He wasn’t even aware that there was a previous husband, let alone a dead one. She apparently pulled a vanishing act after Silver’s death.”
Tiller slid me a piece of internal police paperwork that identified Mary as a “person of interest” in the death of Carlton “Carl” Silvers. “Person of Interest” is cop talk for “will be a suspect as soon as we find evidence.” So the retired detective had plainly thought that Mary was somehow involved in her husband’s death. He had enclosed his notes in the case file, as well as photographs of the car at the scene of the accident. There had been a fire, and the notes indicated that Silver’s body had been burned beyond recognition. He had been identified by dental records and personal items on the body, as well as the fact he owned the car, a brand new Jaguar.
Every indication was that Silvers had been a man of considerable means. So had Mary profited by his death? Had he left her his fortune? If so, that seemed to contradict Wiggins’s statement that she had been penniless when they met.
“Whatever your mystery lady is up to, Roland, it looks like this cold case is still cold. No new leads, no quaking of the earth has turned up anything to indicate guilt or absolve it. That is, unless you have uncovered something that you care to share with your old comrade in arms?”
I smiled and rose to go. “Nothing, Tiller. Not yet. But I’m going to keep shaking this thing. I think something will fall out sooner or later.”
I said goodbye to Tiller and left to go do a little shaking.
Chapter 12
I was just getting into the office the next morning when it happened. Two hoods, similar to those I had encountered before, using similar gestures, shepherded me to a waiting luxury vehicle. The car itself was similar to the one in which Francis had made his revelation. But the stoic silence and the absence of Francis’ smiling face let me know all too clearly who I was going to see. We rode in silence to Mountainbrook, where I was ushered in stony silence to a library. A man stood at a wide window, his back to me.
Don Ganato looked out over the city, the sunny, Southern city that was Birmingham. He had long ago left Chicago to come here to take charge of business. He had done so not of his own choosing, but on the orders of his superiors. When one is bidden, one obeys. He’d done well for himself, his family and his organization, here in the south. But times had changed, and the “family” had changed with them. It was just business, after all. Knowing that, he realized what was taking shape.
The refusal of aid, the delaying. If they had not already sold him out, they were probably going to do so soon. That would mean that they were prepared to do business with Longshot Lonnie O’Malley, rather than run the risk of being pulled into the open in the war that Lonnie had started. Don Ganato knew that he would have to fight this war with what men he had at his disposal, and that they had gotten precious few in the last couple of weeks.
Don Ganato looked up as Rudi and Georgio brought me in.
“Leave us,” he told Rudi. “You too, Georgio.”
“We’ll be right outside,” Rudi said, but Don Ganato shook his
“Everything is moving towards being green and eco-friendly, right? Well, anyway, you’ve got the entire file, here. Let’s see, now. Ah, here’s what you’re looking for. Apparently, someone wanted to question some gorgeous young redhead in connection with her husband’s demise.”
“Redhead?” I asked as Tiller slid the photo across to me. There, looking up at me, was a younger, slightly more doe-eyed, and undeniably beautiful, Mary Wiggins, nee Silvers, apparently.
“That’s her, all right.”
“Quite a looker. Your suspicions are now confirmed, I believe. So, I take it that lovely young Mary here had not informed her new husband about her former husband’s demise?”
“It’s more than that. He wasn’t even aware that there was a previous husband, let alone a dead one. She apparently pulled a vanishing act after Silver’s death.”
Tiller slid me a piece of internal police paperwork that identified Mary as a “person of interest” in the death of Carlton “Carl” Silvers. “Person of Interest” is cop talk for “will be a suspect as soon as we find evidence.” So the retired detective had plainly thought that Mary was somehow involved in her husband’s death. He had enclosed his notes in the case file, as well as photographs of the car at the scene of the accident. There had been a fire, and the notes indicated that Silver’s body had been burned beyond recognition. He had been identified by dental records and personal items on the body, as well as the fact he owned the car, a brand new Jaguar.
Every indication was that Silvers had been a man of considerable means. So had Mary profited by his death? Had he left her his fortune? If so, that seemed to contradict Wiggins’s statement that she had been penniless when they met.
“Whatever your mystery lady is up to, Roland, it looks like this cold case is still cold. No new leads, no quaking of the earth has turned up anything to indicate guilt or absolve it. That is, unless you have uncovered something that you care to share with your old comrade in arms?”
I smiled and rose to go. “Nothing, Tiller. Not yet. But I’m going to keep shaking this thing. I think something will fall out sooner or later.”
I said goodbye to Tiller and left to go do a little shaking.
Chapter 12
I was just getting into the office the next morning when it happened. Two hoods, similar to those I had encountered before, using similar gestures, shepherded me to a waiting luxury vehicle. The car itself was similar to the one in which Francis had made his revelation. But the stoic silence and the absence of Francis’ smiling face let me know all too clearly who I was going to see. We rode in silence to Mountainbrook, where I was ushered in stony silence to a library. A man stood at a wide window, his back to me.
Don Ganato looked out over the city, the sunny, Southern city that was Birmingham. He had long ago left Chicago to come here to take charge of business. He had done so not of his own choosing, but on the orders of his superiors. When one is bidden, one obeys. He’d done well for himself, his family and his organization, here in the south. But times had changed, and the “family” had changed with them. It was just business, after all. Knowing that, he realized what was taking shape.
The refusal of aid, the delaying. If they had not already sold him out, they were probably going to do so soon. That would mean that they were prepared to do business with Longshot Lonnie O’Malley, rather than run the risk of being pulled into the open in the war that Lonnie had started. Don Ganato knew that he would have to fight this war with what men he had at his disposal, and that they had gotten precious few in the last couple of weeks.
Don Ganato looked up as Rudi and Georgio brought me in.
“Leave us,” he told Rudi. “You too, Georgio.”
“We’ll be right outside,” Rudi said, but Don Ganato shook his
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