Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“She was a wonderful woman,” the receptionist said, whimpering.

“Was she well-liked around here?”

“Yes, very. She’d been around Winthrop Enterprises before there was a Winthrop Enterprises. She was the president’s secretary for over two decades. She could be nosey, but what middle-aged, forty-something-year-old woman isn’t?”

Detective Nguyen butted in, “Nosey about what?”

“Nosey about the usual. Employees’s lives in general. Who was working on what, who was cheating on their wives, you know, the usual.”

“Before Marilyn’s death, did you notice anything unusual with ‘the usual?’”

“Not really. Not to me at least.”

“Boyfriend?” Detective Wallace asked, knowing that over fifty percent of all homicides against women are perpetrated by the man they share their bed with.

“Not that I know of,” the receptionist answered, now with an emotionless face that would have taken the pot at any Texas Hold’em tournament.

Detective Wallace handed the receptionist a picture of Chow Ying taken from the ATM camera. “Have you seen this man before?”

The receptionist leaned close, stared hard at the picture for few seconds and then looked up. “No. He doesn’t look familiar.”

Wallace wrote something in his notepad and ripped out the small sheet of paper when he finished. He placed the paper and the photograph on the marble reception counter. “Could you see to it that Peter Winthrop gets this picture and this note? It is important.”

“Yes, I will make sure he gets it.”

“And here is my business card. Please, have him call me.”

“I will let him know you visited.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, detectives.” ***

Back in the wood paneled elevators, Nguyen waited for the doors to shut and then asked, “What did you think?”

Wallace pulled at his waistline and looked at the open page of the notebook in his left hand. “Seemed like a suspicious office. Never had a receptionist ask to see my badge before, have you?”

“Can’t say I have. And she seemed to be a little emotional. Her tears came at the drop of a hat and vanished just as fast.”

“Almost like she was acting. Did you notice that a lot of people in the office were staring at us?”

“Not really.”

“Another ten years on the force and you will. Either way it looks like we have to wait a few days. But if Mr. Winthrop isn’t available, there are some things we can do in the meantime.”

“Starting with?”

“Shake the branches of the Winthrop fruit tree a little and see if anything interesting falls out.”

Chapter 32

The trip to the mechanic had fixed one problem, and Jake’s car no longer stalled. A few loose wires and a cracked distributor cap were diagnosed as the culprits, and the bill totaled forty dollars for the parts and a stinging three hundred for labor. The trail of blue smoke now coming from the tailpipe indicated even bigger problems were on the horizon. The telltale cloud of burning oil followed Jake’s Subaru like a tail, zigging when he zigged, zagging when he zagged.

Jake came to a crawl at the stop sign at Macomb Street and Connecticut Avenue. He could see his apartment, but getting to the parking lot of the old brick building was going to require three left turns on consecutive one-way streets. Jake checked his mirrors, not sure if he should be on the lookout for a six-foot-four mass of Chinese muscle coming at him with a samurai sword down the double yellow lines.

His conversation with Al had scared him. Stuck in traffic as the sun finished setting, Jake ran through scenarios for his father, a senator, and a girl named Wei Ling.

He pulled into the small strip of private parking spaces behind his building and prayed for an open one. He worked his car into the sliver of asphalt next to the massive green dumpster, leaving just enough room to slide out the driver’s side door. Another two inches of waistline and he would have needed a Crisco lube job to get by. He got out of the car, face-to-face with the stench of rotting garbage. He stuck his forearm into his nose and shimmied by without getting his shirt dirty.

As darkness fell over the city, Chow Ying smiled at his target’s timing. He marveled at his own patience. From a bench in the stamp-size excuse for a park across the street, Chow Ying watched Jake pull his car into the lot. The Mountain of Shanghai threw his newspaper in the trashcan and crossed the residential street with a slight limp. The situation was as good as it gets. The police would think it was a robbery gone bad. Another good kid killed by a violent element of the city—violence so ingrained in the city’s youth that neither prison nor the potential for an early funeral were deterrents. As Jake slipped from his car, Chow Ying closed in with slow measured movements. With thirty yards to go, Chow Ying’s strides became longer and his hobble more noticeable. A brief crunch of gravel under his foot gave him momentary pause.

Jake, head down, shifted through his keys as he approached the first floor security door in the back of the building. Chow Ying looked around one last time for witnesses, in final preparation to pounce. The kid didn’t stand a chance, ankle injury or not.

Jake pushed his way into the apartment and a giant hand crashed down on his shoulder from the shadows of the hall, the force spinning him around, slamming the security door open.

“Jake Patrick.”

“Jesus,” Jake said, looking up. It took a second to recognize the intruder. “Tony. You scared the shit out of me,” Jake said, panting. The Castello brothers stood at both sides of Tony. Together, Jake’s visitors stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the hall, blocking the passageway, stuffing the corridor from the mailboxes to the recycling room door.

Looking into the doorway from the outside, Chow Ying froze and then slowly retreated into the shadows near the building. He didn’t take his eyes off the scene in the hall.

“Mr. Sorrentino is requesting your presence for dinner.”

“Has Mr. Sorrentino ever heard of using the phone?”

“I just do as I am told.”

“How did you get into the building?”

“You don’t think a locked door would keep us out, do you?”

Jake thought about the question and considered it a moot point. If the three goons in front of him wanted to get into an apartment building, they would find a way. Window. Door. Trash chute. “Well, I can’t make it this evening. I’m kind of busy,” Jake said, still trembling.

“I can appreciate your busy schedule, Jake, but I don’t care. Mr. Sorrentino pays my bills and he is asking me to offer you a ride, to have a civil meal together. Do me a favor and make it easy.”

“Don’t threaten me, Tony.” Jake’s adrenaline startled both himself and his unwelcome guests. Verbalizing the fact that he wasn’t going to be a patsy for Tony or Mr. Sorrentino gave him a boost of confidence. Fear may indeed be a good emotion, he thought.

“Jake…”

“I’ll tell you what Tony. I need to get something from my apartment. Then I’ll go. But not because I have to. I’ll go because I like Kate.” ***

Chow Ying lurked outside the back door of the building as Jake and the trio of Mediterranean bloodlines firmly shut the door to the building and disappeared. Seconds from the kill and the prey had gotten away. There was nothing to do but wait. From the park across the street, Chow Ying watched the movement in Jake’s bedroom window. Ten minutes later, the lights in Jake’s apartment flicked off, and Chow Ying focused on the back door to the apartment. It was wasted energy. When Tony and the Castello brothers appeared with Jake wedged between them, Chow Ying cursed. The college-aged kid, surrounded by seasoned hard-asses, made Chow Ying think. The Mountain of Shanghai watched Jake get into the back seat of the car parked illegally on the main street and wondered if perhaps this kid had bigger problems than he did. ***