Chapter 29
I sat in front of the computer and let all the air in my body fall out in one long breath. If Fava had connections in France, other than Camille Vanasse or her family, they weren't showing up. Sure, searching around a computer could only tell a guy so much, but I was getting zilch. We were missing something somewhere, some link that would make the connection between Ricardo's Café Italiano and the source of the wine in Ric's cellar. I leaned back and closed my eyes, preparing myself for a long day when my nose caught the familiar aroma of a certain leggy brunette. I smiled and opened my eyes. Sara was standing over me. "Tell me you have something," I said.
Sara smiled. "Your expanded tox panel came back."
I frowned. "Why didn't Henry page me?"
Sara shrugged. "He caught me in the hall on the way by, just as the results were coming in."
"So what did the tox panel say?"
Sara cocked her head to the side. "Positive for cyanide."
"So Hodges was on the nose." I tapped the side of my schnoz and watched Sara's lips curled up into a smirk.
Holding Sara's gaze, I watched as a hint of amusement passed through her eyes. "Sometimes a little too on the nose."
I smirked in return and looked up at Sara. "So what were the levels?"
"220 milligrams."
"Potentially lethal."
Sara nodded. "Mix that with the heroin..."
"And the hearth takes a beating," I finished. "Until it stops beating all together."
"Yeah," she said, her head cocked slightly to the side. She took a seat next to me. "So, how are things coming on this end?"
I looked over at Sara, at the slightly expectant look she got when a case was ready to break. Her eyes breathed excitement. I glanced away. "Not great."
"Can't find a connection between Fava and France?"
I shook my head. "Other than Camille Vanasse..."
I chanced a glance at Sara. Her eyes had dulled, but only slightly. "Well," she said, "we know he's made at least two trips there."
I felt my eyes brighten. "And if he made the trip for another load of wine the same time this year, he would have just made another trip."
"There's nothing in his financials, not credit card receipts or anything to confirm that."
I shook my head, "No, but if he flew in his private jet and stayed with someone down there,"
"And passed dirty cash when he was there..." Sara smirked.
"Then there might not be anything in his financial records." I leaned back. "But, even if he took his private jet, there would still be a flight log."
I looked over at Sara and saw her grin. "I'll go try to get a warrant." She stood up and glanced back at me, a smirk still on her lips. "Brass is bringing Harry Montoya back in. I thought you might want to be there."
I stood up and grinned. "Let me know when you get the warrant."
A half hour later, I was back at PD. Brass hadn't arrived with Montoya yet, but Catherine was there. "Are you taking this interrogation?" I asked.
"Yeah. Why? Do you want it?"
I shrugged. Sure I wanted to see if I could get Montoya to sing, but I knew a broad like Catherine could get him to squirm. Still, I didn't want to sit this one out. I wanted to be there if Montoya tipped hit mitt.
Catherine gave me the eye. "So come along."
I arched an eyebrow. I wasn't sure how that would play with Brass and to be square, I was still a little afraid of the homicide dick. He could be an intimidating bird. I didn't have to worry about that though because when Brass arrived, dragging Montoya by his heels and pushed him into the interrogation room, Catherine stopped Brass. "Greg's going to join us."
Brass gave Catherine the eyeball. "Three people for one little numbskull? You don't think that's a little too much, Cath?"
"So what if the interrogation room feels a little crowded?"
I gave Brass my most winning smile. "Maybe it'll help Montoya think that we're really tightening the screws."
Brass shook his head, frowning. "Alright, but you don't get a seat."
I smirked. "I've been sitting for hours."
We had to wait for Montoya's mouthpiece to arrive before we could begin, so we hung around in the observation room, watching Montoya. He was leaning back in his chair, studying his nails and wearing one of the most arrogant smirks I'd ever witnessed. I glanced at Catherine and Brass and wondered if they saw anything more. Cath was great at interpreting things and reading people and Brass had that copper gut of his from years on the force. That kind of ability took years to develop, or so I told myself. I was better at the science.
The uniform at the door of the interrogation room let in Montoya's mouthpiece. We watched as the mouthpiece took a seat next to Montoya and told him not to worry about a thing. Brass strode from the observation room. Catherine and I decided to give him a minute to get Montoya all warmed up for us.
"Oh, you have a few things to worry about," Brass said, entering and taking a seat across from Harry Montoya.
"Yeah, what's that? Another petty drug charge? Even if you had something, I'd be out in a day."
"Yeah," Brass said, jerking a nod, "I've seen the kind of friends you've got."
Montoya smirked. "You thought I'd actually serve time?"
"I live in hope," Brass deadpanned.
"Aren't you tired of hauling me in here? What are we here for this time?"
Catherine and I took that moment to stroll in. She took a seat while I leaned against the wall.
"Oh, look, it's a party." Montoya gave Catherine the up and down. A lecherous look appeared in his eyes. "I'd party with you anytime, doll."
"Oh please, you've already got enough problems with the women will sleep with you," Catherine said.
"Then maybe you could be the one who doesn't give me any trouble. We could play it smooth."
I felt myself let a quick laugh. "Harry, she's going to be nothing but trouble for you."
"Just like all the other dames. Well, that's alright by me." He winked at Catherine. "I like trouble."
"Good," Brass said, "Because you're in a heap of it."
"Let's start with how you tried to strangle Camille Vanasse when she wanted to know your pal Fava was up to," Catherine started.
Montoya held up his hands. "Easy kitten."
I stepped away from the wall and moved to the table, setting my hands down on it and leaning over Montoya. "We know what happened, Harry, so let us lay it out for you. Camille Vanasse found out about Fava's little wine grift." I stood up and paced a few steps. "How is still a mystery to us. She torches at the club for over two years without getting wise, so I figure somebody must have given her a sip of the wine, and I'm thinking it was you."
Montoya scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
I watched as Catherine and Brass both eyed Montoya, trying to get a line on him. He was bluffing, I knew it, but I didn't know if he was the one to have originally fed Camille Vanasse the wine. I figured he fit the bill though. He was just the kind of mug to do it.
"I think you do," Catherine said. "I think you were trying to wine and dine her and maybe get her in between the sheets. I don't think Fava would have made the mistake of giving her any wine. He was careful enough to keep her out of his business and he knew where she was from."
"He was also smart enough to figure she might get wise to the grift," I added.
Montoya didn't say anything. Catherine leaned forward. "Fava's the wine guy. He's been around it enough to know his wine has a distinct 'Bandol' taste, and that's where you screwed up. Camille Vanasse wasn't falling for your lines. She was dizzy over your friend, but you just had to have her, didn't you. So, you tried to impress her with an expensive bottle, only the wine you fed her is wine she grew up on and she recognized it."
Catherine paused to take a breath, so I jumped in. "But she was baffled by the label. She knew the wine was no more Tuscan than she was, so maybe she asks about it, and I think that's where you made your second mistake. You probably thought the wine impressed her so I figure you told her it was one of Fava's bottles, an expensive little number he kept on stock that you had access to. Camille Vanasse didn't bite though. Instead, she began to look into the wine."
"Probably?" the mouthpiece asked. "You figure?" He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the table. "It sounds like you don't have anything. You're just theorizing here."
"For now, but listen up, because the theory is about to get a little more interesting," Catherine said, leaning forward to meet the mouthpiece's eye. "Camille Vanasse's computer shows her doing research, making inquiries by email, trying to look up the vineyard and when she couldn't find it, she began looking into the grape, a rare little grape called the mouverdre, not grown in Tuscany, but a grape that happens to thrive in the South of France and that makes up at least 50% of the blend in Bandol wines."
"So here's what happened," Brass said. "Camille Vanasse got wise to Fava's scheme. She took a little tour of his cellar and pulled out a bottle. Then, she went to you for answers."
"Yeah?" Montoya asked, his mouth twisted in a sneer. "Why would she go to me if this so called scheme you're dreaming up was Vito's scheme?"
"I don't know," Brass said. "Maybe because she didn't want to have to face Fava. She was in love with him, and maybe she didn't want to see him lie to her face, so she decided on his best friend, or maybe it was because you were one who opened up that bottle for her in the first place."
Brass leaned back. I paced behind him. "So she heads over to your apartment to confront you, but she's a junkie, so she probably indulged in a little nose candy to take the edge off before going over there. Maybe she even asked about having some more of that wine again and you figured the wine must have worked like a charm, but that really doesn't matter. What matters is that she's all gowed-up and you think there could only be one reason a dame like that is showing up at your door, so you show her your bed."
"But she wasn't there for sex," Catherine said. "And you took advantage of her."
"She's too gowed-up to resist you, but she tried, didn't she, even though she was too high to put up a fight? That's why the coroner thought it looked more like rough sex. There were injuries, but not enough to suggest trauma. She did scratch you though, and you did try to strangle her, which would hold up in court if she were alive to press charges." I walked over to the table and leaned against it. "So what happened? How did she finally get your attention? Did she begin to babble about the wine?"
"You're a little slow, Harry," Brass cut it. "It took you awhile to realize what she was really there for, didn't it?"
"But you did," I cut in, "and you got angry. I've seen your temper and you took it out on Camille Vanasse that night, didn't you? She began grilling you on the wine and you began to strangle her. Then what? You see her below you, you're killing her in your apartment, and you know you've messed up? So why didn't you finish her off there? Is it because you're actually sharp enough to know that it's going to be hard smuggling a dead body out of your apartment building? The walls are pretty thin there, and your neighbors…well, we met one of them. The kind of woman that wants to stay well out of your business but still likes to keep her eye out on you, right?"
Montoya stared at me, his eyes as glaring as his silence. I stared back at him. "So you let Camille Vanasse go and you follow her back to the club, watching to see what she'll do while you hatch a plan. You've got time. She can't call the cops from Ric's because the joint doesn't have a phone line and Camille Vanasse doesn't carry a cell. Something still has to be done because not only is she onto Fava's little wine grift, but you've assaulted her. That's when you decide to make it look like an overdose. You still had your hand painted purple and blue on her neck but you knew there would be an autopsy and you figured the coroner would put the cause of death down as an O.D. rather than strangulation. You took a chance that some bruises on a junkie wouldn't be connected with an overdose."
"Are you finished?" Montoya asked.
"Not quite," Brass said. "We found the wine bottle and we found the syringe, and when we find your prints on it…"
"What syringe?" Montoya asked, his eyes narrowing and his brow pinching. His tone sounded almost convincing. It wasn't said with the same sneer as every other word out of his trap. I frowned, giving him the eyeball. A quick glance at Catherine and Brass showed they were doing the same.
I stared at Montoya. "The syringe used to inject heroin and cyanide into Vanasse's wine. We lifted prints."
"Good. Then maybe you'll finally stop hauling me down here."
"Look," Brass said, "if we find your print, it's open and shut, but if you didn't drug Vanasse's wine, then you told somebody at the club that Vanasse was onto the grift and you go down for conspiracy to commit murder. We're giving you a chance here, before the print comes in. You'd be wise to take it. So, who did you tell? Fava? His button man? Or maybe it was your moll."
Montoya leaned back and smirked. "I still don't know what you're flapping your gums about."
"Let me make it easy on you. Right now, the DA can file charges for rape and conspiracy to commit murder, at the very least. If it's your print lifted off that syringe, it's murder one. So if you didn't do it, tell us who you told about Vanasse getting wise to the wine and maybe the DA will drop the conspiracy charge."
Montoya's mouthpiece leaned over and whispered something to him. The corners of Montoya's lips lifted. "Rape?" he asked, scoffing as he said it. He stood up. "You can't prove that. You can't prove any of this," he said, "So, I think I'll be on my way."
"Unless you want to go to court with what you have," Montoya's mouthpiece added. Brass shook his head. Montoya was right; we couldn't prove any of it, not yet. We wouldn't be able to confirm what Vanasse's heroin levels were when she went over to Montoya's apartment, so there was no way to prove he'd actually taken advantage of her hopped-up state and she wasn't in the position to spill. Vanasse was dead and dead dames don't talk. Maybe evidence did, but the evidence we had wasn't enough, not if Montoya didn't inject the heroin and cyanide into the wine.
I stood by the door and watched Montoya leave. His shoulder bumped mine as he made the exit. He could play the confident cat, but we were on the money about what had happened; I'd lay heavy odds on that. It was the only way I could see it fit. It would be all silk if it turned out his print was on that syringe, but given the smug look that was plastered over his mug as he left, I felt like that was betting the long shot.
