by A W Hartoin
Catherine didn’t need the money and didn’t seem particularly interested in it. I knew a lot of trust fund kids from the private school education that The Girls gave me and they usually came in one of two forms. Either they were obsessed with wealth and telling everyone about it or they couldn’t care less, happily secure in their own position. Catherine was the latter. She went to Notre Dame and got an undergraduate degree in accounting and then a master’s from Wash U. She worked at Calabasas Elite Accounting downtown, the only job she’d ever had. Kevin Calabasas was a friend of her father’s and that’s probably why she was hired on at a higher than normal salary, but Morty said she was very good at her job, specializing in forensic accounting.
“What kind of cases has she worked on?” I asked.
“You name it, she’s done it. Lots of divorce work, finding out where dirtbags hide their money from their spouses.”
“That pisses people off.”
Morty gave me a pirate’s smile. “Yeah, it does.”
“Anybody in particular?”
“Joseph Walsh.”
“The Mattress King?” I asked.
“Yeah. Catherine stitched him up good during the last divorce. He’s doing fifteen to twenty-five for money laundering and tax evasion.”
I sat back and rolled my hot mug between my palms. “But you don’t think he’s behind the pictures.”
“Nah. He’s a nasty bastard, but those pictures are too subtle for the turd. He threatened everyone from the judge to his own defense team. Says he’s gonna stick hot pokers up their butts and shit like that. Judge suspended his mail and phone privileges because of it.”
“Nothing about Catherine?”
“He yelled at her in court after she testified.”
“What he say?”
Uncle Morty tapped a few keys. “‘I’m going to rape you while your children watch.’”
“Oh, my god.”
“Yeah, he’s special.”
“What did Catherine do?” I asked.
He chuckled. “She flipped him off and gave six interviews saying he was a pea-brained asshole.”
“That might not have been the best idea, but I’m starting to like her.”
“I thought you might.”
I took a slow sip and watched Morty. He avoided my eyes. “You still don’t like her though.”
“She’s an alley cat,” he said.
“Meaning what?”
“She cats around. I ain’t a fan of chicks like that.”
I gritted my teeth. “How about men like that?”
“Them either. Turds all of ‘em.”
“So I was right about the date stamp then?”
“Yeah, you nailed it. Those pictures go back nine years.”
“Not the same person I take it.”
The answer was no in a big way. Catherine got around. Ten different time frames for the pictures over a time period of nine years. Morty figured that meant different recipients and that didn’t count the guys she actually dated. There were five boyfriends and six guys she dated casually a few times. What the crap? I couldn’t get that many men to ask me out if I paid them. Stalkers I got in spades. Normal guys wanting to go to dinner and a movie? Nope.
“What is it about Catherine?” I asked. “She’s not great looking.”
“She’s available and willing. You ain’t.”
“I didn’t say anything about me.”
He eyed me over the top of his chunky glasses. “You was thinking it.”
“Whatever. So who’d she send the pics to?”
“Beats me.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t find them on her phone, personal laptop, or her work computer,” he said.
I drank the rest of my latte and rolled that around in my mind. “How can that be? Are you sure those pics are of Catherine?”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Fine. You explain it.”
Uncle Morty belched again, sending out a wave of noise and stench that made people get up and leave. If only I could.
“Seriously. What is up with you?”
“Nothing. She’s got another phone,” he said as a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
“Great.”
He closed his laptop with a snap and handed me the file. “Are you gonna buy me a beer or what?”
“Or what. It’s nine-thirty in the morning and this is a coffee shop.”
“Eh, son of a bitch.”
“What is up with you?”
“I need a drink.”
I leafed through the file. Catherine’s life wasn’t as private as she probably thought it was. Morty got it all, including her latest pap results. I would’ve filed that under Unnecessary. “Because of Catherine? What’s the big deal? You deal with skanks all the damn time and honestly, in terms of skank, she’s not that bad.”
“Up all night,” he said. “To me it’s nine p.m.”
“I don’t think it works that way. What about this other phone?”
Uncle Morty heaved himself to his feet. “What about it?”
“What’s on it?”
“I don’t freaking know. I can’t get in until she uses it.”
“Can’t you back door it through the boyfriend?” I asked.
He grinned at me or maybe it was a grimace, hard to say. “She doesn’t call the boyfriend or anybody else we know she knows on it.”
“Ew. You’re saying…”
He stuffed his laptop in its bag. “It’s her sex phone.”
“Don’t be gross.”
“She’s the gross one. I’m the one who’s helping you.”
“For a fee.”
“I gotta get paid.”
“You’re a bestselling author.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass.”
“So I’ve heard. When can you get access to that phone?”
“When she taps into her wifi. I’ll drop some spyware on it and we’ll have it all.”
“Any idea when she might get on there?” I asked.
He grumbled and I pointed to the chair. “I’m paying for this.”
“Premium? No family discount?”
“Since when do I get a family discount?”
“Since Carolina called me last night and told me to kick into high gear,” he said.
I grinned at him and pointed to the chair. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Why’d you tell her? Carolina has better things to deal with than some randy skank.”
“She needs something to distract her from Dad driving her up a wall. Now I know you’ve got some idea about said skank’s habits. When’s she getting on that phone?”
“I say we drop it. If Cabot wants his kid protected, he can pay a real detective.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I took the laptop bag away from him. “Why are you being so weird about this?”
“Maybe I’m just weird. Ever think of that?”
“I’ve known you were weird since you gave me that Lord of the Rings chess set for my birthday.”
“That’s a vintage original. You didn’t take it out of the box, did you? Probably worth some serious bucks now.”
“I was seven. Who gives a kid something that can’t be taken out of the box?”
“You asked for a toy,” he said, dropping back into his seat.
“I asked for a Barbie Mustang.”
“That stuff is crap. I gave you something real.”
And that’s why you’re weird. For starters.
“Fine. When’s Catherine going to use that phone?”
He grumbled and I threatened to call Mom and Big Steve, who would undoubtedly call Dad. Nobody wanted that.
“God damn pain in the ass kid wanting Barbie crap sons of bitches won’t leave me alone to live my damn life.” Uncle Morty pounded on his keyboard while muttering like a madman and people gave us an even wider berth. Jim, one of the owners, waved at me wildly. He was in his mid-forties, trim with greying hair
, and usually a cool guy. I shrugged and he gestured for me to get Morty out of his hip coffee bar with a quickness. He should’ve known. Uncle Morty didn’t move quickly period.
“Do you have it?” I asked under the glare of Jim’s anger.
“Yeah, yeah. I got a few dates here. Looks like the last two sets of photos were taken when her chump boyfriend traveled out of town.”
I looked through the file. Theo Hines, freelance photographer of modest success but good reputation. He worked weddings, magazine layouts, and occasional wildlife photography, a man of diverse interests. He was thirty-five, never married, good credit, and a few tickets, parking mainly but speeding as well. Theo’s life looked pretty swell, except for the part where his live-in girlfriend was cheating on him every chance she got.
“So when’s his next job?” I asked.
“Out of town’s a flipping month away.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“I know it. Let’s hand this back to Big Steve and call it good.”
I leaned back in my chair, ignoring Jim’s waving behind Uncle Morty. “No. We’ll give him a job.”
Uncle Morty narrowed his already squinty eyes at me. “Yeah? What do you have in mind?”
“DBD will hire him for me. They’re always having stuff shot.”
“It’ll cost you,” he said.
I was already dialing the phone and he was right. It would cost me. Mickey Stix, the band’s drummer, was more than happy to hire Theo Hines to do some shots of the new studio in Copper Mountain, Colorado if I’d do some new cover shots for a single they were releasing. Mickey claimed that they got more play time when I was on the package. I found that hard to believe, but I agreed.
“We’re all set,” I said.
“Great,” Uncle Morty grumbled. “Now what are you going to do, sit on your butt while I work up a sweat?”
“You worked up a sweat just sitting there.” I tried to touch his forehead, but he knocked my hand away. “I’m going.”
“So am I,” I said. “Anything I need to know about Catherine’s company?”
He heaved himself to his feet, belched, and said, “Like what?”
“Married to the mob? Owner a dirtbag? Whatever?”
“Nope. Solid company. Privately owned and in the black. You going over there?”
“I think I will. It’s time Mr. Calabasas gives me an account of Catherine,” I said.
“Why?”
“I can’t ask her who hates her so I’ll start with him. Is Catherine working today?”
“She’s working at home. She usually does. Take Aaron with you.” Uncle Morty packed up his laptop and lumbered away.
Like I have a choice.
As if on cue, Aaron trotted out of the back, carrying a freshly-made scone. Ode de Caffeine doesn’t serve scones. They’re not hip enough. They serve Cronut knockoffs and stuff made out of cereal milk.
Aaron put the scone in my hand and waited, hands clasped.
“Did you make this back there?” I asked.
He started bobbing up and down.
I sighed and bit into the best scone ever. It wasn’t just a scone. It was a filled scone with luscious lemon curd and something else. “Is that cardamom?”
“You like it?”
“Of course, I do,” I said. “It’s an amazing scone. Did you make the curd?”
Aaron looked off to the left and I took that as a yes. Like he’d use someone else’s curd. Puhlease.
A woman in a sharp but boring suit came up and asked, “Excuse me. Where did you get that scone?”
“My friend made it,” I said.
“Here?”
“Sort of.”
A man and his cohorts joined her and asked, “That smells amazing. Are they selling scones now? We’re over cronuts.”
The woman turned to Aaron and asked, “Can I get one of those scones to go?”
“He doesn’t really work here,” I said.
“But he made scones.”
“Well—”
Jim rushed up. “He’s a guest chef. He was just trying something out. We have lots of treats to tempt you.”
The expressions on the customers said, “No, you don’t.”
“Mercy, can you go now?” asked Jim.
“Can I try that scone?” asked the woman. “The smell is amazing.”
Jim looked pained and he was a sweet guy. I couldn’t do it to him. “Sorry. Try some of that milk cereal stuff.”
“I’ll pass,” said the man and his cohorts agreed. They went for the door with faces that said they’d never be back.
“He made more,” said Jim in a hurry. “As a test batch, would you like to try some?”
The customers were happy. Jim wasn’t. “Why did you bring him here? You know he’ll cook.”
“Why’d you let him?” I hissed back.
“It just happens,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“When’s the new bakery open?”
We looked at Aaron and got absolutely nothing in return.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said.
“You’ll let me know, Mercy,” pleaded Jim. His customers were moaning in pleasure at the counter. “I’ll contract him. Right now. This minute.”
“We’ll see,” I said, grabbing Aaron by the scruff of the neck before he could go back into the kitchen.
I got him outside and we walked away under the worried gaze of Ode de Caffeine’s owners. “Why do you cause problems?”
“I cook.”
“Do you have to do it everywhere? Some people don’t like it.”
Aaron stopped walking. “You don’t like it? Too much cardamom?”
I pushed him along. “The cardamom was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Perfect. Great. Couldn’t be better,” I said. “We’ve got an interview, unless you’ve got to work at the bakery?”
Aaron didn’t go to the bakery. He came with me. There was absolutely no chance he wouldn’t.
Chapter Seven
I DIDN’T REALIZE where I was going until I turned onto 18th Street. I probably wouldn’t have if Aaron hadn’t started vibrating with excitement. The little weirdo was positively jiggling and the scent of hot dogs got stronger. I couldn’t think what got his motor running. It wasn’t a particularly exciting part of the city, lots of grey and no green, and not easy to drive in with a ton of one-way streets. If you blinked, you’d miss your turn and end up driving around for fifteen minutes trying to get back to where you started. As a person who got lost on a regular basis, one-way streets were the bane of my existence.
“What is your deal?” I asked Aaron.
“You hungry?”
“No.” Actually, I could eat, but I was on a mission. We weren’t eating. We were interviewing and I didn’t remember any particularly exciting food in that section of my hometown, although it had had a bit of a refit over the last few years with stylish lofts going in abandoned factories.
“Stop it. There’s no cooking or eating. We’re going to talk to this Mr. Calabasas and that’s it.”
“Turn,” said Aaron, a second too late and we did end up taking a series of one-ways to get back. The trip took longer than I wanted. Doesn’t it always? And it was about to get longer. I’d totally forgotten the other love of Aaron’s life. My partner loved food, Star Trek, superheroes of every description, and The City Museum.
“No,” I said when I spotted the Ferris Wheel perched on top of the old International Shoe Company building.
“Yes.” Aaron was already pulling out his wallet, a ragged nylon thing secured with Velcro.
“Please, Aaron. We’re on a case. There’s no time.”
He kept jiggling as I pulled into the parking lot next to the Social Security Administration and paid an outrageous amount for what I hoped would take a half hour at most.
“I’ll pay,” said Aaron.
“Forget it.”
I parked and jumped out of my truck, ran around the bed
, and just caught Aaron by the collar as he beelined for his favorite place on Earth, mine, too, if I’m being honest.
The City Museum had been open for an hour and a half so we were lucky to get a parking spot at all. Groups large and small were heading for the world’s most unique museum that wasn’t really a museum at all. It was a fantasy playground built in, on, and around the shoe factory with architectural remnants of St. Louis. There were planes you could only access through wire coiled tunnels like a hamster’s Habitrail soaring through the air and making hearts flutter and knees ache. Slithering stone serpents guarded the entrance to the parking lot and made you want to go in to see the castle tower, log cabin, and the school bus perched on top ready to tip over.
I held Aaron back, but my mind was inside that place that I first visited when I was ten. I ran through a whale, climbed through a ceiling and out a tree trunk. I saw turtles and enormous fish before getting lost in the enchanted caves and scaring Mom half to death. I slid down the roller slides and tried out the skate park. Mom bought me custom shoelaces for my Converse before I rode the mini train. She said she wished Dad were there, but he wasn’t. Somebody died and he missed it.
“We can’t,” I said, my heartstrings being pulled as much as Aaron was pulling me across the pavement.
“An hour,” he said.
“You know it’s not an hour. It’s not possible to go to The City Museum for an hour. You’ll be in the caves for that long.”
“I won’t.”
“You will,” I said, keenly aware of people giving us curious glances as they sped past us. “Catherine Cabot is being threatened. I promised Big Steve I’d find out who’s doing it.”
Aaron abruptly stopped pulling and I rammed into his back nearly knocking him down.
“Promise,” he said.
“What?” I asked, but I knew what.
“We’ll go.”
“Didn’t we just go?”
“Six months ago.”
I groaned. “Fine. I promise.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Aaron pulled out his phone and opened his calendar, which was empty by the way. I guess you don’t have to schedule cooking non-stop. “When?”