Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) by Jack Getze Page B

And if we don’t catch it, if the banker doesn’t bother telling us, just fixes it himself the next day, our permanent records become inaccurate.”
    Mallory nods with satisfaction. “I get it. So if this co-mingling charge were to hit the newspapers, Shore would lose a lot of business, maybe even close. You or your boy Farascio killed Talbot to keep this report from going public.”
    He waves papers at me I assume came from Talbot’s hotel room. How else would he know about the co-mingling charges?
    “Exactly,” I say. “Shore hired Tony to kill the AASD investigator because every body knows a murder trial would make us look good.”
    “I don’t think your friend Farascio expected to stand trial,” Mallory says. “He figured to burn the place down, cover his tracks.”
    The interview room door opens and Mallory’s partner leans in holding a manila envelope. The young detective looks nineteen in his schoolboy haircut and new, tan-colored J. C. Penney suit. He looks like an Eagle Scout.
    “Here’s the fax from Washington,” the kid says.
    Mallory opens the folder, reads a few minutes while I wonder what he’s looking at. I don’t have a rap sheet, but maybe Tony does. Maybe I shouldn’t have given up Farascio’s name. I definitely should not have let Tony go see Talbot. Mr. Vic’s going to choke me when he gets back from Italy. Or, more likely, Tony, Bluefish or Max will have throttled me long before the boss gets home.
    When I get out of here, I’m never going to stop drinking martinis.
    Mallory’s had enough of the file. He tosses the manila fo lder onto the tear stained, fear scratched table between us with a tiny splat. The papers and photos slide partially out of the manila, pulling my eyes like a cheesecake calendar. What is this crap?
    “How long have you and Anthony Farascio been friends?” Mallory says.
    “I told you. We’re not friends. I never met the guy until this week.”
    “Right. He’s a total stranger. That's why you sent him up to deal with the AASD for you.”
    “He’s Vic’s friend, not mine.”
    Mallory grins. His bony fingers pick up the manila folder again. He slides out a photo-fax, nudges the grainy image across the table.
    It’s a shot of a burned-out building, probably a restaurant and bar judging by the blackened sign in the foreground. The sign gives the joint’s hours as 10 a.m. to 2 a.m.
    Mallory saying, “The Feds call Farascio, Tony the Torch.”
    He slides a second photo toward me, this one featuring three, tarp-covered bodies, all with black ened feet peeking from under a dark-spotted canvas.
    “He gets paid to burn things for insurance money,” Mallory says. “ Sometimes there are people inside.”
     
     

 
    SIXTEEN
     
    A hard noise echoes inside my apartment. Rapping at the door. Who the hell needs me so badly at—I check the digital clock on my nightstand—three o’clock in the morning? Mallory had enough of me by midnight. And it sure isn’t Ann Marie Talbot. Is it wishful thinking to hope it might be Tony? With Bluefish’s missing cash?
    I slide out of bed. The toasty cheese smell of tomato pie lingers in my living room, but the sensation’s not exactly pleasant. I stopped for eats on the way home from Branchtown’s ancient brick police station, and my stomach tells me I should have chosen lighter fare than Roman Ricco’s greasy pizza. Ricco’s idea of an olive oil drizzle resembles what’s left in the pan after you fry a pound of bacon.
    Bang, bang, bang. Can’t be the Creeper. The front door would already be lying flat.
    Peeking through a slit in the curtains, I see Gina Farascio huddled at my door. She’s wearing the same torn sweater and wild eyes I saw at the Martha.
    What I don’t see until I open up is Gina’s handgun. She yanks some kind of shiny chrome revolver from her black purse, pushes it against my chest and rushes me back inside.
    “Where’s Tony?” she asks.
    Her voice wavers with emotion. Fear or anger, I can’t