by Nic Saint
He used his indicator to turn left onto Main Street. As usual, there wasn’t a single parking spot left in front of the hotel, so he turned the car down the ramp and into the parking garage reserved for hotel guests.
“Whoever mixed the nitro must have done so where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Because nitro is a notoriously unstable substance, and tends to explode when you don’t know what you’re doing. Plus, nitro has some serious side effects.”
“Like?”
“It affects the arteries, widening them, which is why it’s so useful against heart conditions and chest pains. The side effect is that it opens the blood vessels in the brain, too, which can cause some serious headaches. They call it NG head, or bang head, and it’s more like a migraine than a mild headache. Other side effects are dizziness, nausea, flushing…”
“So we’re looking for a killer with a serious case of migraine.”
“Or those migraines could have passed by the time he or she came to Hampton Cove. It’s the fumes and working with the stuff that’s tricky. Once it’s transferred into a canister and kept on ice it’s much safer to handle.”
“On ice?”
“Oh, yes. Nitro is notoriously unstable. One wrong move and boom! So it’s handled at low temperatures and stored that way, too.”
She sighed. “So we’re looking for a killer who may or may not have had headaches in the past and who used a cold bottle of beer to kill the Most Fascinating Man in the World.”
Chase gave her a grin. “Isn’t this the most fascinating case you’ve ever worked on?”
They got out of the car and rode the elevator up to the lobby. The four men they were here to interview were waiting in the conference room. For the sake of expedience Chase had decided to interview them together instead of one by one. And so it was that when they walked into the conference room, the Most Intriguing, Most Iconic, Most Attractive and Sexiest Men in the World were seated around the table, drumming their fingers and looking glum and annoyed.
Most interesting men don’t like to be kept waiting. And they don’t appreciate jumping through hoops to satisfy the members of law enforcement.
What was more, Odelia had the distinct impression there was tension in the air. She could be mistaken, but she thought these men didn’t like each other very much.
Chase came straight down to business. “All of you guys had both motive and opportunity to stage an attack on Burt Goldsmith. What I would like to know is who you think is responsible for what happened to him.”
He pulled back a chair and took a seat, and Odelia followed suit.
The men all shared suspicious glances, but Bobbie Hawe was the first to speak. The Most Attractive Man in the World was a handsome fortysomething male of powerful build who obviously spent a great deal of time in the gym. He was dressed in a three-piece suit that was filled out by a muscular physique, and sported the kind of well-groomed facial hair that Robert Downey Jr. was so fond of. He also wore that actor’s favored tinted glasses.
“I know what you’re doing and it won’t work, detective,” he said in a low drawl.
“Oh? And what is it you think I’m doing?” asked Chase.
“You’re trying to pit us against each other. Make us roll over and give you the name of the culprit.” He spread his arms. “And I would give you the name of the culprit. If I knew.”
There were murmurs of agreement from his fellow interesting men.
“It’s not a big secret that none of us are great friends,” Bobbie continued, “but that doesn’t mean we aim to kill each other or blow each other up. And we definitely would never have tried to kill Burt Goldsmith, who was the elder statesman of our select group.”
“We have it on good authority that Burt came down to Hampton Cove to steal attention away from your conference,” said Odelia.
Bobbie laughed. “Let me guess. Curt told you that, right?”
She nodded.
“He wasn’t lying. Burt did come down here out of spite. But that doesn’t mean there was no mutual respect. We’re all businessmen, detective—Miss Poole. We compete for the same share of the market. But above all we respected Burt. For what he’d accomplished. And for his stamina. I mean, the man was as old as my grandfather—and still going strong.”
“Burt was a legend,” chimed in Jasper Hanson, Most Intriguing Man in the World. He was small and physically negligible, but there was something about him that was most… intriguing. Maybe it was his face, which didn’t seem put together well. His eyes too far apart, his lips too thin. His nose too flat. Whatever the case, when he spoke, everyone listened. “I actually liked the man,” he continued, ignoring howls of protest from his colleagues. “No, I really did. We had a connection. We would meet each other on the road—us interesting men do a lot of trade shows and conventions, as you might imagine—or in some hotel bar, and we would invariably drift into each other’s ken, sharing a few beers—bourbon for him. Burt didn’t like the taste of beer, not even his own brand—and swap war stories.” His expression sobered. “He will be sorely missed by this community. And definitely by yours truly.”
“I never liked him,” said Nestor Greco, the Most Iconic Man in the World. He was squat, heavyset, with receding hairline, and dressed head to foot in black. He looked like a guy who could have had a part in Goodfellas, shooting the breeze with the local mobsters. “I thought he was a fake. Just a big phony.”
“Burt was the real deal,” said Jasper. “The most interesting man of all.”
“Nah, he wasn’t. He was an actor playing a part. The real Burt was a bore and a drunk. A drunk!” he insisted over the protestations of his colleague. “The only time he was interesting was when he was drunk as a skunk—but then we’re all interesting when we’re plastered. Even the biggest dullard in the world becomes interesting when he’s loaded to the gills.”
“I think you’re all wrong,” said Dale Parson, the Sexiest Man Alive. He looked like a swimwear model, with his sharp features, wavy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. “The only one who ever knew Burt the man was me. I never told anyone this but he’s the one who got me launched in this business. I was a walk-on on one of his commercials when he spotted me and gave me my first big break. Hooked me up with his ad campaign manager and that’s how I got started modeling swimwear for Vic’s Secret and underwear for Kevin Klein.” He tapped the table smartly. “That’s the kind of guy Burt was. Generous and loyal to his friends.”
“So who killed him?” asked Chase. “If all of you thought he was so great—”
“I never said he was great,” said Nestor. “I said he was a loser.”
“You said he was a bore,” Jasper corrected him.
“A bore and a loser. And a drunk. A nasty drunk. He once got into a fight with a nun. A nun! Who gets into a fight with a holy woman? Only a drunk loser like Burt Goldsmith!”
“Don’t call him a loser,” said Dale, looking pained. “Burt was like a father to me.”
“Well, maybe he was your father,” said Nestor.
“What are you saying? That Burt screwed my mother?” asked Dale, rising.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying! Burt screwed everyone’s mother and their mother!”
“Please, gentlemen,” said Bobbie. “Let’s not do this. A man died. Show some respect.”
“He never had any respect for me!” said Nestor. “Why should I show respect for a man who wiped his ass on my profession! Wiped his ass on me!”
“Please,” Bobbie repeated. “Is this helpful? Is this productive? Please.”
“The man was an asswipe,” Nestor continued, “and he screwed your mother,” he told Dale, pointing his finger at the man. “Which makes you an asswipe’s asswipe!”
The veins in the swimwear model’s temples were throbbing, and his fists were clenched. It wouldn’t take much for him to take a swing at the squat Nestor Greco.
“Please,” Bobbie said again. “This is not the way we do things around here.”
“This is e
xactly the way we do things around here,” said Jasper softly, squinting at the ceiling, a nickel playing through his fingers. “Which is why we’ll all get arrested and charged with first-degree murder if we don’t get our acts together and figure out who’s behind this.”
“Well, we all know who’s behind this, don’t we?” said Nestor.
“If you’re going to say my mother is behind this, I’ll slug you,” said Dale. “I swear to god I’ll slug you and I’ll slug you good and proper.”
“Asswipes don’t slug people,” Nestor pointed out. “They—”
“Don’t say it,” Dale warned. “Don’t you dare!”
“I suggest you take a long hard look at Tracy Sting, detective,” said Jasper. “We might not agree on anything, but we all agree on this. Tracy is the one who did this to Burt.”
“Tracy Sting?” asked Odelia. “Who is she?”
“Burt’s handler,” said Chase. “We’ve been wanting to have a word with her.”
“Tracy represents Dos Siglas,” said Bobbie. “Like you said, she’s the one who handled Burt. Organized the shoots with the ad company. Scheduled his appearances.”
“So why would she kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?” asked Chase.
All four men were silent for a moment, sharing glances. Even Nestor turned quiet, and Dale had taken a seat again. None of them spoke, as if in sudden agreement.
“Gentlemen?” Chase prompted.
“Look, Burt was old, all right?” said Bobbie. “The man was past his prime. But he didn’t think about hanging up his saddle. Said he still had at least a dozen good years left in him. Which would have put him past ninety. Now I’m all against ageism, detective, but ninety? Seriously? So Dos Siglas wanted to put him out to pasture. Replace him with a younger model. Maybe even change up the campaign a little. A fresh take, you know.”
“Burt wouldn’t accept their offer,” Jasper chimed in. “He refused to stand down. Said that if they forced him to retire he’d take them to court. Sue them for all they were worth.”
“In their eagerness to sign him up, back in the day, they’d forgotten to stipulate a termination clause,” Bobbie explained. “So Burt figured he would go on in perpetuity.”
“And they couldn’t fire him for fear of bad press,” said Nestor.
“So they killed him?” asked Odelia. “Just like that?”
“Why not?” said Jasper. “It was their only out. And a lot of free publicity, too.” He leaned in. “Imagine the headlines: Most Fascinating Man in the World dies in a Most Fascinating Way. By exploding beer bottle. The articles write themselves. Not to mention that they planted a Tres Siglas bottle at the scene, smearing the competition in the process.” He leaned back. “From an adman’s point of view the death of Burt Goldsmith was a golden opportunity. A master stroke. And Tracy Sting is the person who set the whole thing up.”
Chapter 22
Alec Lip sat nursing his beer while gazing out the window at one of the most interesting sights in the world: the people who inhabited Hampton Cove. They were his fellow citizens, the people he was being paid to protect and serve, but also his friends, co-workers, family members and former fellow schoolmates. Above all, though, they were people, and people watching was one of Alec’s favorite pastimes. Better than a movie at the local cineplex. Better than a show on Netflix or one of the networks. And definitely better than sitting at home and wondering if Chase would stay over at Odelia’s tonight or not.
Last night he’d hoped to catch a game with the guy, but as usual he’d been a no-show. Not that he minded all that much. Most nights they both ate dinner at the Pooles anyway, and often hung out at Marge and Tex’s while Chase snuck over next door to canoodle with Alec’s niece. Was it still canoodling when you were past the legal drinking age? He wasn’t sure. At any rate, there would be many more ball games, and if Chase was serious about Odelia—and it looked that way to Alec—the guy would become family, which was all for the good, cause he liked Chase. Liked him like a brother. Or the son he never had.
And he was just putting the beer bottle to his lips again when a tall and striking redhead loomed up in his field of vision and jutted out a shapely hip. Shapely was the word that described the rest of her as well. From her well-pronounced chest to a pair of legs that seemed to stretch on for miles, a face that could have launched a thousand ships, and luxuriant curly hair the color of burnished copper. The woman was all woman, top to toe, and dressed the way he liked, too: checkered shirt, tight jeans, cowboys boots. Howdy, sister!
“Is this seat taken, sheriff?” she asked in a sexily hoarse voice.
“No, ma’am, it sure ain’t,” he heard himself reply.
She drew out a chair and sat down across from him, fixing him with the greenest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. A tickle ran up his spine, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
“Sheriff Alec Lip, right?”
He was nodding before he realized that he wasn’t a sheriff at all. “Chief Lip,” he managed, and noticed he was holding onto that bottle of beer as if it were a lifeline. She was that kind of woman.
“Chief Lip,” she amended.
“Though folks around here just call me Chief Alec.”
She smiled, and the sun suddenly seemed to shine just that little bit brighter. “My name is Tracy Sting, Chief. I heard you were looking for me?”
He controlled himself with a powerful effort. “As a matter of fact I was, Miss Sting.”
She threw out her hands and settled in. “Well, here I am. Ask away, Chief Alec.”
Her voice had that Demi Moore grit, as if she’d been smoking a pack a day since the cradle. Hard to imagine a woman like this ever having been in the cradle, though. More likely she’d been born fully formed. He cleared his foggy mind and his throat. “You were Burt Goldsmith’s go-to-person for everything Dos Siglas, is that correct?”
“That is correct. I work for the company, and was assigned to Burt as his personal assistant and executive contact. Whatever Burt needed, I got him.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Everything?”
She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Everything.”
He decided to ignore the innuendo. “And is it also correct that Dos Siglas were aiming to get rid of Burt but his contract wouldn’t allow them?”
She smiled a tight smile. “Who told you that?”
“I’m a cop, Miss Sting. It’s my job to know these things.” That and the message Chase had just sent him. Apparently his and Odelia’s interview had pointed to Tracy as the killer.
She shrugged. “I guess it’s not a big secret. It’s true that Burt signed an ironclad contract that allowed him to stay on long after what most people would consider the age of retirement. And it’s also true that Dos Siglas had naturally assumed that Burt would call it quits once he reached the mid-seventies. He didn’t, however, and felt that as long as his health allowed, he would keep going. The man was having too much fun, Chief. He wasn’t going to quit the best job in the world just because some company figurehead said so.”
He played with his bottle for a moment. “Did you try to persuade him to quit?”
There was some fire in those eyes now. “No, I did not. I thought he was doing a damn good job. The man might have been older than my father but he was fitter than most men his age and in better shape than a lot of men a lot younger than him. Plus, the public loved him.” She leaned in and tapped the table between them. “Burt Goldsmith sold more beer than anyone that’s ever lived, just by being himself: a funny, charming, sweet old guy.” She leaned back. “If he wanted to go on until he dropped dead, who was I to stop him?”
“Someone stopped him. Permanently,” he pointed out.
“Well, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t anyone at Dos Siglas. The bosses wanted out of the contract, sure, but that doesn’t mean they were going to blow up their best investment. Can you imagine the shitstorm that would come down on us if it turns out we blew up our most popular pitchman? Burt was Do
s Siglas. He was the face of the company.” She shook her head, her red mane provocatively dangling around those slender shoulders. “No, Chief. Someone fed you some wrong information. Someone else killed Burt and I, for one, want to see this person punished to the full extent of the law. Maybe even more than you do.”
“I very much doubt that,” he said, and was rewarded with an icy look. Ouch.
“You think I did this? Blow up my charge and risk my reputation and freedom?”
“I’m sure your company will reward you handsomely for your work—and provide you with future opportunities even more lucrative than babysitting Burt Goldsmith.”
She smoldered for a moment, then laughed, a throaty sound that was very pleasant. “I like you, Chief Alec Lip. You’re direct. You say it like it is. And I can see that you’ve already made up your mind about me.” She rose from her chair in one fluid motion. “You think I’m a killer. A stone-cold murderess.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” he protested. “I merely wanted to point out that—”
“No, you’re absolutely right,” she said. “I am the perfect suspect. Which means I’ll have to convince you that you’re wrong about me. What about dinner and a movie?”
Alec’s brows shot up. Now this was a first. First time a woman asked him out on a date. And first time since his Ginny died that he was actually considering saying yes. Before he could think things through, Tracy Sting gave him a knowing nod. “Pick me up at eight. Room 433. And don’t be late, Chief. If there’s anything that turns me off it’s tardiness.” And then she was off, swinging those hips and turning the head of every guy in the establishment.
Alec shook his own head, feeling dizzy and dazed. What had just happened? And then he was getting up from his chair and moving after her. “Wait up, Miss Sting—Tracy!”
Chapter 23
Once again Dooley and I were on the move. Even though the weight of woe pressed down upon us in the form of Dooley’s potential move to Colorado, we’d decided not to let it worry us too much. Cats are a notoriously resilient species. Not only because of the fact that we have nine lives instead of the measly single one humans have been allotted, but also because we always tend to land on our paws. What was more, Dooley had been blessed with a great idea. If this Most Fascinating Cat in the World had run off and taken to the streets, who better to track him down than Clarice, our feral friend, who owned these very streets?