“I’m sorry about your husband,” Lou said. It was his standard intro for occasions like this.
“It was just like him,” Gloria said. “I’d told him time and time again he shouldn’t stay up and watch television. And now he goes and gets himself shot. I don’t know anything about running a business. I’m sure people are going to rob me blind.”
“Was there anyone that you know of who would have wanted your husband dead?” Lou asked. It was the first question in the standard protocol.
“I’ve been all over this with the other detectives. Do we have to go through it again?”
“Perhaps not,” Lou said. “Let me be frank with you, Mrs. Vivonetto. The way your husband was killed suggests an organized-crime involvement. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“You mean Mafia?”
“Well, there’s more to organized crime than the Mafia,” Lou said. “But that’s the general idea. Is there any reason that you can think of why people like the Mafia would want your husband killed?”
“Ha!” Gloria laughed. “My husband was never involved with anything as colorful as the Mafia.”
“What about his business?” Lou persisted. “Did Pasta Pronto have any connection whatsoever with organized crime?”
“No,” Gloria said.
“Are you sure?” Lou questioned.
“Well, no, I guess I’m not sure,” Gloria answered. “I wasn’t involved with the business. But I can’t imagine he ever had anything to do with the Mafia. And anyway, my husband was not a well man. He wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway. If someone wanted him out of the way they could have waited for him to keel over naturally.”
“How was your husband sick?” Lou asked.
“In what ways wasn’t he sick?” Gloria shot back. “Everything was falling apart. He had bad heart problems and had had two bypass operations. His kidneys weren’t great. He was supposed to have his gallbladder removed but they kept putting it off, saying his heart wouldn’t take it. He was going to have an eye operation. And his prostate was messed up. I’m not sure what was wrong with that, but his whole lower half didn’t work anymore. Hadn’t for years.”
“I’m sorry,” Lou said, unsure of what else to say. “I suppose he suffered a lot.”
Gloria shrugged her shoulders. “He never took care of himself. He was overweight, drank a ton, and he smoked like a chimney. The doctors told me he might not last a year unless he changed his ways, which wasn’t something he was about to do.”
Lou decided there wasn’t much more he’d learn from the not-so-aggrieved widow. “Well,” he said, standing up, “thank you for your time, Mrs. Vivonetto. If you think of anything else that might seem important, please give me a call.” He handed her one of his business cards.
Next Lou headed for the Singleton residence. The place was a simple, two-story, brick row house with two pink flamingos stuck in the front lawn. The street reminded him of his old neighborhood only a half dozen blocks away in Rego Park. He felt a stab of nostalgia for the evenings in the alleyway, playing stickball.
Mr. Chester Singleton opened the door. He was a big man, middle-aged and quite balding. He had a hounddog look thanks to his beefy jowls. His eyes were red and streaked. The instant Lou saw him he knew he was in the presence of true grief.
“Detective Soldano?”
Lou nodded and was immediately invited inside.
Inside, the furniture was plain but solid. A crocheted comforter was folded over the back of a plaid, well-worn couch. Dozens of framed photos lined the walls, most of them black and white.
“I’m very sorry about your wife,” Lou said.
Chester nodded, took a deep breath, and bit his lower lip.
“I know that other people have been by,” Lou continued. He decided to go right to the heart of the matter. “I wanted to ask you flat-out why a professional gunman would come into your home to shoot your wife.”
“I don’t know,” Chester said. His voice quavered with emotion.
“Your restaurant-supply business supplied some restaurants with organized-crime connections. Do any of the restaurants you supply have any complaints with your service?”