Chapter 23

 

Chapter Twenty-Three

 

 

The first report of the murder of Lillian Petulengro aired on the 11:00 PM news on Friday night, but Stuart Jaffe didn’t learn about it until he read the Washington Post on Saturday morning.   Jaffe knew it wasn’t the first time Carl had been forced to resort to violence to resolve one of his problems but the realization that his own lack of restraint had now resulted in a second death still disturbed him. First Victoria and now this Petrulengo woman. The article did not include any specific details, just that the body of Lillian Petulengro was discovered when the police responded to a breaking and entering call at her tattoo parlor on 13^th Street, NE in Washington, DC. 

 

“Police are have detained a person of interest, identified only as a woman in her mid-fifties, who was on the premises when the police arrived.”

 

Jaffe pushed the paper aside and was reaching for the telephone when it rang. It was Carl. “Boss, have you seen the morning paper?”

 

“I was just reading it.”

 

“I think we need to talk – in person. Is now a good time?”

 

“I’ll be waiting, Carl.” He didn’t have to wait long. Sometimes Jaffe wondered if Carl even had a home – of a life of his own. The strange little man always seemed to be available at a moment’s notice. It occurred to Jaffe, not for the first time, that he really didn’t know anything about Carl Stone. Jaffe had been away at the University of Oregon when his father had hired Carl as his driver. While he never understood exactly what Carl did for his father, it was obvious that his duties were far more diverse than those of a chauffer.

 

When he was home he noticed Carl never seemed to be far from his father. The two were virtually inseparable. Carl was certainly a peculiar companion for a man like his father. His father usually surrounded himself with men who were like him – physical men whose activities centered around hunting and fishing, football and first-rate whiskey. Carl was a pocket-sized man. That’s how Jaffe had described him to his best friend at Oregon.

 

“The little guy gives me the creeps. It’s like my father has adopted Rumpelstiltskin or something. He never says anything. Just follows dad around like a troll. He wears the same black suit all the time”.

 

“Why does this guy bug you so much, Stu? He’s just a driver.”

 

“You don’t get it. He’s more that a driver. I tell you – this creep has the eyes of a killer.”

 

“Now you’re talking crazy. Since when does your father need a killer on his payroll?”

 

Jaffe still didn’t know what Carl had really done for his father. The few times he had asked him his father had always given him the same answer. “He’s a good driver and he keeps his mouth shut.”

 

Jaffe had to admit his father had been right about that. Carl did keep his mouth shut. Stuart Jaffe had inherited Carl from his father, just like he had inherited his three lumber mills and the impressive house on River Street. Stuart had mortgaged the house and used the money to finance his first political campaign. He didn’t want to run the family business. He had bigger plans.

 

The doorbell rang. A few minutes later his housekeeper showed Carl into the breakfast room where Jaffe was re-reading the story about Lillian Petulengro’s murder.

 

“I suppose this was the only way to handle the situation, Carl?”

 

“It was the best way to handle it.”

 

Jaffe was in no mood to argue with Carl. “Have a seat. You said we needed to talk?”

 

Carl remained standing. “I talked to someone I know at the Fifth District. He’s not directly involved with the Petulengro case but he talked to someone who is. There may have been a witness.” He paused – not for dramatic effect but because as far as he was concerned he had delivered the bad news and all that remained was for him to deal with the consequences.

 

“A witness? For God’s sake, Carl. I was in that shop myself. It’s no bigger than this room. If there was someone in there you would have seen him.”

 

“It was a her. Apparently not, Sir. My source has informed me that there may have been a woman hiding in a curtained off section of the shop. The police have detained her. They found her standing over the body with my knife in her hand.”

 

“Well that’s good, isn’t it? They’ll stop looking.”

 

“I don’t like loose ends. Right now she is telling the cops she doesn’t remember anything, not even her name. I’m worried that if she starts remembering, she might remember something she shouldn’t”