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  AN ALGY TEMPLE MYSTERY BY

  J.J. Partridge

  VIRGINIA BEACH

  CAPE CHARLES

  Scratched

  An Algy Temple Mystery by

  J.J. Partridge

  © Copyright 2014 J.J. Partridge

  ISBN 978-1-940192-72-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  212-574-7939

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  A $1.99 (or less) eBook is available with the purchase of this print book.

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  1. Scratch: skrach: to scrape as with claws or nails; in pool, the act of shooting the cue ball into a pocket, either intentionally or unintentionally, and forfeiting a turn

  2. Scratch: skrach: money or cash

  3. Scratched: in athletic contests, terminated or withdrawn, to lose

  Table of Contents

  1 WaterFire

  2 Monday

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13 Tuesday

  14

  15

  16

  17 Wednesday

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24 Thursday

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31 Friday

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36 Saturday

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41 Sunday

  42 Monday

  43

  44

  45 Tuesday

  46

  47 Wednesday

  48

  49 Thursday

  50

  51 Friday

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56 Saturday

  57

  58 Wedding

  59 Rome

  One Year Later

  Other Algy Temple Mystery books by J.J. Partridge

  Acknowledgments

  1 WaterFire

  Whenever Esmeralda Gonzalez recollected that night, her thumb and index finger went to her lips and she signed a Cross.

  Luis Gonzalez found a parking place on College Hill and led his family down the steep incline to South Main Street. The family was dressed for a warm, humid August night’s fiesta; Luis with pressed jeans, white short-sleeve shirt, and new Nikes, his wife Esmeralda in a white blouse with red lacing and flowing black skirt that showed off her trim figure, and Laurienda, their five year old niña, in flip flops, shorts, and her favorite Mickey Mouse tee. This was the immigrant family’s first evening venture into downtown Providence; they were nervously excited and ready to encounter what neighbors had promised would be an adventure: the exotic, mystical, wonderous WaterFire.

  Earlier arrivals sprawled on blankets on the worn summer grass of Verrazzano Park or crowded railings along the Providence River to watch black-garbed fire keepers in work boats load splits of hardwood into mushroom shaped braziers. Others lined up at food trucks and stalls conducting a brisk business in sausage rolls, tacos, bulgogi, empanadas, pizza slices, lamb kabobs, and Rhode Island–style fried calamari with hot peppers. Braving a rush of Latino teenage boys in shorts, numbered T-shirts, and angled baseball caps followed by a possee of giggling girls, Luis bought chicken empanadas and cans of Coke for the family and found a bench along a busy brick walkway for their meal. A troupe garbed as ferocious gargoyles across the walkway got their startled attention; shy Laurienda hid her face in her mother’s skirt until cajoled into peeping out at two Anglo girls her age dropping coins into outstretched cups and posing for photographs.

  They finished their food, Luis stuffed their plates, cans, and napkins in a trash bin, and crossed a grassy expanse past marble memorials to veterans of wars barely familiar to Luis. They paused before shiny aluminum sheaths formed into towering rings, rusted-for-effect twisted metal crosses, an ominous obelisk adorned with parts of cap pistols and real guns. “Que es todo esto?” Luis, his shoulders in a shrug, asked his wife.

  Choral music from speakers hidden within the shadowy corridors between river embankments accompanied the family as they joined a throng of noisy celebrants down to a cobbled path at river level where jugglers and mimes performed. Laurienda, her fingers secure in her parents’ hands, became wide-eyed for glo-toys, whirligigs, and balloons on sticks sold by roving vendors. As they reached the shimmering pool of the Ellipse in WaterPlace Park, a setting red-orange sun made a blinding appearance through a bank of vermillion clouds; a partying couple in a water taxi held up wine glasses in a toast to spectators. The Gonzalezes joined in the appreciative applause.

  As dusk gave way to night, WaterFire transformed the river and park. Braziers became saucers of crackling orange, yellow, and blue flames creating undulating stained glass effects on the surface of the inky water. Gregorian chants provided a melodic background for huge, tethered LED-illuminated dragonflies circling above their heads, a fire-baton twirler entertained an enthralled audience from a bridge parapet, drifting wood smoke added an ethereal quality. Across the river, one side of a granite and green glass office building became a five-story screen displaying a live video of excited, happy children; Luis hoped the roving camera would capture the image of his pretty Laurienda.

  They found seats on granite steps leading to the river and watched tongues of fire lick the night and sparks snap skyward. Esmeralda pointed to a mist forming on the river’s surface; Luis, an avid fisherman when his job with overtime at a busy Alex and Ani jewelry factory in Cranston allowed him a few hours of free time, explained that cooler water must be flowing from Narragansett Bay on a rising tide.

  As a gondola glided by, its boatman in a striped shirt and straw hat with ribbon tail, his single oar propelling the craft toward South Water Street’s promenade, Laurienda found a stick from a discarded toy, took a step closer to the water, and swirled it beneath its surface, creating bubbles and foam. As the music changed to a friendly Latin beat, Luis and Esmeralda experienced a sense of comity with the strangers sitting nearby, with those in their paseo around the Ellipse; all were absorbed in an other-worldly ritual of light, color, sound, scent, and shadow that was the essence of WaterFire.

  A swirl of Laurienda’s stick was impeded beneath the reflective surface of the water. She poked at something vaguely white that had moved into the Ellipse with the tide. “Papa, Papa,” she exclaimed, turning to her father who raised his chin in response. Laurienda called again, a child’s demand creeping into her voice. “Papa! Come here!”

  “What, Laurienda?
” he replied, in English, as his daughter thrashed the water with her stick. “Laurienda, what have you got? A big fish?” He laughed and nudged Esmeralda. “A whale?” He laughed again as he stood.

  “Let Papa see.”

  Am I stabbed? Is blood rushing out of my belly? Is this how I die? The impact is not so much pain as paralysis. An acid taste of vomit gorges in my mouth, the tape slapped over my lips prevents my gag, another covers my eyes leaving flashing spirals in blackness, as though my head is spinning. Maybe it is. Tape circles my wrists, a cord loops my neck and thighs, I’m lifted with grunts and swearing, and dropped backside first into the Charger’s trunk.

  Only then does my stomach relax enough for me to snort air into my lungs. I am not going to die … . Yet.

  2 Monday

  A CONVERSATION WITH BENNO Bacigalupi was like shaving with a dull razor.

  I put my mug of coffee on the table where the ex–state police detective hovered over the remains of breakfast. He was garbed in his work uniform, a narrow lapel suit, white shirt, and nondescript tie; his throat bobbed with a swallow of coffee as he raised his narrow face to me.

  “So …?” I sat across from him.

  We were in a rear booth at Costa’s, a classic Providence greasy spoon on Thayer Street, a hangout for the campus cops, and maintenance and grounds crews essential to Carter University’s operations. I had been summoned by his terse message left last night on my home phone—not exactly a command but close—to meet him here at seven thirty. Benno wouldn’t call me on a Sunday night to meet for less than something consequential; he conducted all important business in person because, as he once explained, “never just hear a voice when you can see a face.”

  “Italo Palagi.” The lip of his mug remained at eye level. “Interested?”

  I was. Immediately. And surprised, and circumspect. Benno was, after all, these days a detective for hire. “In what?”

  Benno responded impatiently. “How he died, of course.”

  I thought I was already well informed. The body of Italo Palagi, the Director Emeritus of Carter University’s Institute for Italian Studies, had been discovered weeks earlier in the Ellipse during a summer WaterFire, causing a huge commotion. An accidental death according to the preliminary report of the medical examiner who found a massive overdose of OxyCodone in Palagi’s corpse. As Carter University general counsel, Palagi’s death, although not the manner of his death, was of professional interest because the Institute was the beneficiary of a multimillion-dollar bequest from his estate. Only last week, a demand letter had arrived from a lawyer in Rome and co-counsel in New York challenging the bequest on behalf of one Vittorio Ruggieri who claimed to be Palagi’s son and heir.

  “Sure,” I responded, cautiously, as the tempting smells of fried eggs, grilled onions, hash browns, and bacon began to weaken my resolve to avoid a high caloric breakfast.

  Benno’s stubby fingers grabbed the table’s saltshaker and sugar dispenser and lined them up in front of me. A Moleskine notebook came from his inside jacket pocket; he flipped it open like cops did in noir movies, laid it flat, his eyes focused on its tiny handwriting.

  “Palagi owned a condo at Corliss Landing on South Water Street near the river,” he began in his raspy lisp. His index finger touched the sugar dispenser, which became a proxy for the condo. “Came home from his office that Wednesday night at five by cab.” His finger moved to the saltshaker that now represented Palagi.

  “Security guard noticed he carried a valise. Like most nights, had his dinners delivered from Al Forno, that fancy restaurant practically next door, a featured pasta of the day, garden salad with a balsamic vinaigrette, a couple of rolls, delivered at seven o’clock. At eight thirty-seven, he called his longtime secretary on a landline. She lives in the same condo complex. Conversation lasted less than two minutes. She told the detectives that Palagi said not to come in on Thursday or Friday. She wasn’t surprised because he had been moody, sickly, not a lot of work for her. On Thursday afternoon, she called his condo to check on him. No answer. Again, on Friday, no answer at home or the office. She went to his condo, she’s got a key, and he wasn’t there. So, she called 911. He surfaced Saturday night and Monday, after he was identified, cops did a pass at his condo. The delivery box from Al Forno was in the trash, his plate, utensils, and a wine glass in the dishwasher, and get this, his pajamas were laid out on his bed.” Benno picked up the saltshaker. “So give him an hour for dinner, time to clean up, call the secretary, lay out his pajamas, and then sometime between nine and early the next morning, that’s the medical examiner’s best guess, he’s in the river.”

  The saltshaker advanced down the table toward a napkin holder, vinegar cruet, and ketchup bottle that had to represent buildings along the river. “Hard to tell exactly with him in the river for a couple of days.”

  I hid a grimace with my mug at my lips. Hadn’t thought of the effect of seventy-two hours in the summer temperature of the Providence River on the old man’s body. Or tidal currents bruising the body on river rocks as it scraped along its bottom or against the petrified wharf pilings near Point Street. Then, unexpectedly, from an unsettled place in my psyche, came an unwanted echo of a horrific combination of rasp, snore, and gurgle, a death rattle. Years ago, during President Reagan’s ill-fated intervention in Lebanon, I was among hundreds of Marines trapped under the twisted steel and broken concrete of our crumpled Beirut barracks, unable to move, covered in debris and grit, a steel beam creaking inches above my head. In the long hours before I was rescued, helpless, I suffered through my comrades’ forlorn, muffled, heart-rending cries, their blood and dust blocked breaths, and finally, their death rattles—sounds once heard, never forgotten—and now always associated by me with death. Was there something like a death rattle in a drowning? Water in place of blood and phlegm? I shivered involuntarily and lost my appetite.

  “You okay?” Benno asked evenly. The ghosts vanished from my thoughts, I nodded, and he continued. “Now,” he said, “here’s an old guy, not good on his feet, used a walking stick to get around, aches and pains at that age, right? It was steamy all day and a stay-in night that the Weather Bureau said ended up in one of those pea soup fogs they get down by the harbor. He locked his condo, left his building through a rear door that’s got a deadbolt, crossed South Water Street to the river. Somehow, somewhere along there, he got down to the river’s edge, popped his pills, fell, conked his head on a rock or something on his way in, gulped river water,” he snapped his fingers, “heart went.” The saltshaker toddled past the cruet, ketchup bottle and napkin holder and was tipped on a side.

  “Okay, suicide,” I said. Perhaps the medical examiner’s conclusion of accidental death was a less judgmental, less intrusive, way of categorizing Palagi’s demise.

  Benno’s chin jutted out at me in a challenge. “So, if you’re not coming back, why lay out your pajamas? Why lock your apartment?”

  Reasonable questions. “Force of habit?”

  “Guess what was in his pockets?”

  “His keys?”

  Benno blinked. I had been paying attention. “Good guess, but not on him when he was found.” His eyes gleamed with anticipation. “What else?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” I answered impatiently.

  “A Beretta!”

  “A what?”

  “Beretta. Single action, semi-automatic, an Italian army officer’s side weapon. Carbon steel and plastic grips. Carries eight rounds of .32 caliber in a magazine. Stopped making this model, an M1935, at the end of Mussolini’s era. Looks like this,” and from his shirt pocket, he unfolded a page ripped from a gun magazine displaying a sleek looking, metallic-gray pistol. “Compact enough to put in a trouser pocket. Managed to stay inside his.”

  An eighty-two-year-old retired university professor packing OxyCodone and a pistol? “Which tells you what, exactly?”

  “Nothing I can figure right now. According to the investigation report, the pistol wasn’t registered and maybe
never fired, one cartridge in the chamber, not even sure it was still live ammo. If there were fingerprints, the salt in the river water took care of them.” The torn page was refolded and slid into his notebook.

  I said, “Maybe he had a meal, a glass of wine, put out his pajamas, called his secretary, and then decided to do it? Went to the river, took his pills and the gun because he hadn’t made up his mind how …?”

  “So,” Benno interrupted, leaning into me, his voice becoming contentious in his harsh whisper, “if it was suicide, where’s the friggin’ note? Average suicide, probably not. But a professor? Man who wrote all his life? C’mon, there’s got to be a note. He’s got to explain.”

  I wouldn’t accept that. “You said the secretary had a key. Maybe she tidied up and took the note when she went into his apartment?”

  Benno frowned. “Why?”

  “It was too personal …?”

  He shook his head, refusing to acknowledge my conjecture wasn’t farfetched. “Even with no note, why go down to the river to swallow pills? Why not take the pills in bed with a glass of vino after asking somebody, the secretary for instance, to come over the next day? And what’s with the Beretta? The guy was … clean … you know what I mean? Clean. That kinda guy doesn’t stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, his brains spattered everywhere. That kind of guy doesn’t want to end up in the Providence River, bleached out, bloated, crabs eating his face ….”

  I remembered Palagi as fastidious, even prissy in dress and manners despite age rendering him stoop-shouldered, his eyes myopic behind stylish rimless glasses, his ring of white hair always in place.

  “Why are you into this, Benno?”

  “Did some work for him a few months ago.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “You know better than to ask,” he said tersely. “His obit said he had been a big giver to the University so I figured you might want to know what I know.” Benno straightened his shoulders from their hunch and pushed the table’s accouterments back against the wall. “Here’s the thing,” he said, his voice rising in sharpness, “the detective squad did a crappy job. When the prelim found the junk in his gut, they went for the easy answer of prescription overdose suicide because cops move on, there’s always another file. After they spoke to his secretary and gave the condo a once-over, they didn’t treat it as a suspicious death. Didn’t try to find where he went in. Didn’t know he used a walking stick. What happened to that?”