His pizza had been voted Richmond’s best several years in a row, and in the last couple of years it was catching a new buzz with a migration of thirtysomethings moving into expensive condos that had been carved out of the old warehouses.
She parked on the cobblestone streets and walked quickly to the pizza shop. She pushed through the front door, savoring the fresh scents of oregano, tomato, and basil. A portly man standing behind the counter wore a white T-shirt, jeans, and an apron. Thinning white hair was brushed off his round face. He pressed a sticking key on an old brass register.
“Be right with you,” he said, frowning at the key.
“No rush,” Julia said.
The shop was long and narrow, and the brick walls were covered with several dozen photographs taken in the shop over the years. One of the first pictures featured a thin and wiry Dutton in front of his pizzeria. His hair then was thick and dark, and his eyes bright and full of excitement as he grinned broadly. Beside him was a woman wearing a ruffled shirt, jeans, and permed hair. Written in the corner was “1990.” The pictures progressed through the years, Dutton’s hair becoming thinner and whiter as his waistline thickened. A lifetime captured on the walls. As she scanned back toward 1992, she spotted a picture of Ken and her father standing with Dutton. All three were grinning.
She stared at her father’s smiling face. The particular day wasn’t recorded, but she’d guess early fall because the three still had their summer tans, but a patron behind them was wearing a sweater.
He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d kill himself by the end of the year. He looked comfortable, in his element. He’d never been like that at home. She understood smiles could mask all kinds of sadness. And she knew everyone had a breaking point. She’d been near that edge, but she’d never been tempted to jump over it.
“What can I do for you?” His accent quietly gave away his Brooklyn roots.
She turned toward the man, recognizing him as Dutton, as she reached for the badge clipped to her waistband. “I’m Julia Vargas with the Virginia State Police. I have a couple of questions; it’ll only take a moment.”
“I got a few minutes. Expecting a delivery truck, so I might have to multitask.”
“I’m looking into the Hangman case.”
He shook his head, resting thick fists on his hips. “I hoped I could live the rest of my life without hearing that god-awful name again. The son of a bitch nearly killed my business.”
“What do you remember about it?”
“I’d opened the shop a year or two before. I was getting traction. All the drunks coming out of the bars with huge appetites, and they kept me in business.”
“Why did you choose this area?”
“Rent was cheap. I always thought I’d make enough to springboard to a better location.”
“But you stayed?”
He shrugged as he reached for a rag and began to wipe the counter. “After my wife, Gina, died, I didn’t see the point. She was the one with the big dreams and the one who wanted the chain of stores. When she was gone, this place was enough.”
“When did she pass?”
“Ten years now. She had cancer. Hell of a woman. I stay here to be close to her.”
“Did she worry about the Hangman?”
“Sure. But she was never alone in the restaurant after dark. I saw to it. And we both figured this killer went after a certain type of woman.”
“What type?”
“Hookers. The working girls back then were real scared. They didn’t go out alone during that time but stayed in pairs after the second body was found. They’d stand near this store because they knew I was open until one a.m., and I kept my .45 behind the counter. I was more worried about a robbery, but if I’d come across that son of a bitch, I’d have gladly shot him, too.”
“Did you know the victims?”
“I remembered Rene. She was nice. And Tamara. She hung out on the street corner by the shop sometimes.”
“The johns would pick her up out there?”
“Yeah. Like I said, it got a little rougher around here after midnight. Hell, we still get some of that crap happening here today. And frankly, they aren’t any subtler than they used to be.”
“Any of Tamara’s johns stand out?”
“No. I made a point to keep my nose in my own business.”
“Did the cops ever speak to you?”
“Sure. I spoke to them a bunch of times. First the uniforms and then the detectives. Mutt and Jeff I called them.”
“Mutt and Jeff?”
“Don’t get me wrong, they were sharp and tough guys. But they stuck together like glue. They could finish each other’s sentences. I gave them slices of pie, and they made a point to stop by to check in while they were working the case. Got to know them pretty well. Solid guys. Sorry to hear the one died.”
She pointed to her father’s picture on the wall. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
Mark came around the counter. “Yeah, that’s him. Jim and Ken. Mutt and Jeff.”
“Jim also worked the area as an undercover officer.”
“I remember him saying that. He said once he came into the shop undercover for a slice. I told him later I didn’t recognize him, and he laughed. He said good. His job was to slip into another identity as easily as a suit. I asked him if he had trouble keeping it all straight.”
“Did he?”
“Never quite gave me a clear answer. The guy had a million-dollar smile, but he also had an edge.”
“What do you mean by edge?”
“Short fuse. He never lost his temper around me, but he didn’t appreciate it when someone got in his face.”
“Who got in his face?”
“That guy, Tanner, whose wife was murdered. He was in here buying a pizza when Mutt and Jeff came into the pizzeria. Tanner accused them of harassing him. Said to do their job and find the real killer. Mutt didn’t like that.”
“Mutt being Jim.”
“Right.”
“What about his partner, Ken? How was he?”
“Smooth, jovial. I always figured he was the good cop, the one that softened you up for the bad cop. Ken came by regularly until about a year ago. Where’s he?”
“Retired. You ever suspect anyone who might have killed those women?”
“A lot of crazy people come in here, and I keep my .45 close. Everyone talked about the crime, but no one had the faintest clue who it was. No one was holding back.”
“I read their reports of their interview with you and your wife. They noted how much they liked the pizza.”
“Really?” Dutton beamed.
“Yeah. One report had a tomato sauce stain on it.”
He glanced up at the picture on the wall. “Your name’s Vargas?”
“Yeah.”
“Father?”
“Yeah.”
“You look like him.”
“I get that a lot,” she said.
“I wish I could help you.”
She pulled a card from her jacket pocket and put on her best smile. “If you think of anything, give me a call. Just sleep on it.”
He flicked the edge of the card with his index finger. “Sure. And if you see Ken again, tell him Mark has got a complimentary pie waiting for him.”
“Will do.”
“Sorry about your dad. I sincerely liked him.”