by Tyler Colins
“No. A bird pooped on your shoulder,” Linda chuckled.
“Gross!” Like an Olympic hurdler, she leapt over a concrete border leading to the Pacific and onto a concrete boat launch. Removing tissues from a canvas knapsack bearing a hibiscus theme, she hastily slipped them in the ocean.
Linda and I laughed as she frantically wiped away the tiny plop of poop.
“This is so not funny, ladies,” she groused.
“It's considered good luck, you know,” her best friend said.
Had Rey been anime character Flame Haze Shana, Linda would have been incinerated. With one of those infamous Fonne-Werde buffalo snorts, she clambered up and we resumed our walk toward Magic Island.
“I'm not sure which story I found more dramatic: the one when Ives and Hunt first visited last Saturday or when they returned Monday morning.” Linda took Button's leash so she could walk her favorite pooch.
“Monday's,” Rey affirmed with a nod. “She painted that one so colorfully, I felt as if I was right there.”
* * *
“How was the theater?” Like toy soldiers, Ives and Hunt stood ram-rod straight at the front door. A scornful smile pulled at the former's lips while the latter's chewed fruity-scented gum with zeal.
Buddy glanced at her Swatch watch and noted it was 7:55 a.m. “You must work 24/7.” She jerked a thumb to the rear, indicating they should enter.
“Pretty much.” Hunt offered a goofy Don Knotts grin. It appeared a good cop - bad cop day might transpire.
They entered the lanai. The men, wearing identical outfits, but of different quality – black pants, white shirts, and black loafers – took seats on a rattan sofa without invitation. Eda lumbered in, hugging a pansy-pink satin robe that barely concealed a mango-orange teddy, while messy mocha shoulder-length curls framed a sleep-kissed face. Unlike Buddy, who'd been up for three hours, done two-hundred stomach crunches and run three miles, showered and had breakfast, the thirty-three-year-old Chief Human Resources Officer had just stumbled out of bed. She wasn't very good at getting up before nine on vacation days.
“Coffee?” Eda mumbled, her eyes barely open.
“Sure.” Hunt offered another goofy grin.
She plodded off and Buddy regarded the detectives circumspectly as she leaned into a wall, waiting for them to initiate the discussion.
“You were telling us about the theater?”
“I was?” Buddy crossed her arms. “Right. You want to corroborate my whereabouts. Why? Do you think I iced someone else?”
“Did you ice someone else?” Ives asked bluntly, reclining and scrutinizing Buddy intently, as if accessing her memory banks.
She offered a tart smile. “Was there another murder since we last met that you'd like to pin on me?”
“You tell us.” His sturdy jaw shifted. “Did you ice Picolo?”
“No. Did I want to ice him? No. He paid and treated me well. …Waiting for Godot.”
Hunt's forehead, an extension of his scalp, pleated like a kilt. “Huh?”
“We saw Beckett's Waiting for Godot last night at The Globe, the old renovated theater in the Arts District. It started at eight. Afterward, we had tea and cake – oolong and papaya cheesecake to be precise – two blocks over at La Fantasme. Then we came home.” Buddy looked from one to the other. “Anything else you'd like to know, like what time I went to bed, who else may have been in it…?”
Hunt's Affenpinscher lips opened in response just as Eda tramped in.
“Coffee's almost ready.” Having slipped into jeans and a blouse, Eda held a tray supporting dainty Wedgwood cups, matching sugar and cream tableware, and elegant silver cutlery. She placed it on a round glass table to Hunt's left and lumbered back to the kitchen.
“By the way, Mrs. Feuer, do you own a 10mm-caliber pistol?” It was Hunt's turn to regard her intently.
Buddy's mouth went dry.
“I take it that's a yes,” Ives said with a smile short of a sneer.
“I own a Glock,” she responded crisply, finding the detective as abrasive as steel wool. If he were a truck, he'd have been a tanker, one that carried hazardous waste. “I left it with someone on Maui – Eb Stretta, before you ask. And I prefer Ms.”
Ives and Hunt exchanged glances.
“Ebenezer Stretta was found approximately two blocks and one laneway over from where Picolo's body had been discovered,” Hunt finally offered. “He also happened to drive for Picolo. Isn't that true, Ms Feuer?”
“Eb's dead?” Buddy paled. “Are you sure it's the Ebster?”
“He had photo ID on him.” Hunt glanced at Ives. “He was shot in the head, not the face.”
Eda returned with a Wedgwood coffeepot and placed it alongside Hunt when he gestured with a beefy hand. He did the honors and poured, proving that civility existed in the least likely of places. “He was found around 1:00 a.m. this morning in a dumpster, wrapped clumsily in heavy-duty plastic. His face had been flattened like Picolo's, but instead of greeting a wall, his kissed the waste container … before he got three in his head, too.” He poured milk in his cup and took a sip. “Stretta was killed between 9:00 and 11:00 p.m.”
“We all know that death cannot be pinpointed to an exact time,” Eda chided. “At best, that's a guesstimate. And in this instance, a wrong one if you're looking to tie the time and death to my best friend here.”
“He was shot with a Glock.” His gaze and tone were even.
Buddy glowered. “With a gun like mine, which I left on Maui … with Eb.”
Hunt made a notation in his dog-eared notebook, an action Buddy found Columbo-ish.
“So this poor Eb person was found in a dumpster. Why come to us?” Eda asked briskly.
“Do let me guess.” Buddy, feeling everything from distressed to cantankerous to twitchy, waved and bounced like an overexcited grade-school pupil, voicing what Eda wouldn't. “Not only was he shot with a gun like mine, but the dumpster he was discovered in wasn't far from the theater we were at last night and, as you said, wasn't that far from where Jimmy Picolo was found.”
Ives frowned. “Did you shoot Stretta? And Picolo?”
“Does she need to lawyer up?” Eda asked worriedly.
“Not at this time.” Ives' laughter reminded Buddy of Waimea Falls: steady and resonant. “But when she does, I suggest she hires Picolo's counsel. Flankton Teela is adept at getting his clients acquitted or serving minimal sentences.”
If the heat from Buddy's gaze were a torch, the detective would be as crispy as over-fried pancetta. “They have no proof, Eda.” She dropped into the rattan chair beside Ives and leaned close, her voice a kitten's purr. “You don't have a gun. You're fishing, or I'd be at the station behind bars. But I have nothing to hide. As I said, I have a gun – a Glock. If Eb was shot with one, it's merely a coincidence. …Let's not forget the head damage. Do I look like someone who could push fit men into walls or dumpsters?” Before Ives could reply, she threw up a hand. “Never mind. I'm sure you'd find a way to explain that.”
Hunt smiled easily. “You're right. We didn't find the murder weapon –”
“Yet,” Ives interrupted, glancing sternly from him to her.
“But we did find your card in his wallet,” Hunt continued nonchalantly. “Whoever shot both men stood 5' 10” or 5' 11”, so the lab folks claim, considering the trajectory angle of the projectiles. Also, the person is left-handed. You look to be about the right height, Ms. Feuer. What hand do you write with?”
Buddy studied Hunt for several seconds and decided he was a straight-up sort of guy. “With my left, but I didn't shoot Eb and I didn't shoot Jimmy.” How many times would she be saying that? “And if the men were already prone, how could you determine height? It seems to me where and how the killer was standing when he – or she – shot the victim could play a part in how trajectory angles are calculated.”
His smile was almost kindly, in an old uncle sort of way. “Stretta was shot between nine and eleven. The theater ended before 11:00 and t
here was an intermission around 9:15.”
She offered a sour smile. “Eda and I left La Fantasme around 11:30, maybe 11:45, to go home. Like that Friday night at J&B's, Eda's my alibi.”
“Except for when you were alone with Picolo –”
“Yes, in the lobby, but Beune the owner happened to be there.”
Ives poured more coffee, sipped, and leaned forward. He reminded Buddy of a jaguar readying to pounce. “Beune Lachance had to get a bottle of Veuve Cliquot – La Grande Dame, to be precise – for a preferred customer. He left you in the lobby at 10:55. This he remembers because he happened to glance at a wall clock before stepping away. Neither of you were in the lobby when he returned. Nor were you at the table.”
Buddy rolled her eyes. “I escorted Jimmy to the laneway, where the limo was waiting. I was gone three minutes, if that. I'd planned to check with Mr. Fugger to see if he was okay with giving Eda and me an hour to have dessert and coffees, which would have allowed him enough time to drop off the boss and return to collect us. But the chauffeur wasn't in the limo and Jimmy had told me to scoot back to Eda before the pecan torte arrived. As for not being at the table, some dust had blown into my eye, and I went to the washroom to rinse it.”
“Picolo was killed at 10:55 p.m. or shortly thereafter.”
Hunt glanced at Ives, who continued to stare. Finally, he asked, “Was Ms. Feuer with you in the theater at all times last night?”
“Of course,” Eda sniffed, incensed.
Buddy stared intently at the detectives. “I went to the ladies room once during intermission at the theater and once during dessert at the restaurant. Intermission was at 9:15 and dessert around 10:55 – ah, the magic hour again.” She offered a dour smile. “Both times, I was gone for approximately five minutes. I'm not in the habit of starting up friendships in washrooms, so it's doubtful that anyone can verify I was there.”
“The theater washrooms are located at the rear where an exit door, frequently used, opens onto a parking lot,” Hunted pointed out.
“Five minutes isn't enough time to race over, locate Eb, and shoot him – after bashing him senseless.” She rose and moved toward the window and peered outside. “Do you have my fingerprints at the scene? What about a viable witness or two?”
Neither man responded.
“What you do have, gentlemen, is an urgent need to solve two murders, which you'll do, even if you have to arrest the wrong person.” Buddy turned slowly. “Good luck. Should you be fortunate to find incriminating evidence – that isn't circumstantial at best – contact me on Maui. I'm sure you already have the address and number.”
“It will be more than circumstantial, Ms. Feuer,” Ives promised, standing.
“What it will be, Detective, is vindicating.”
Ives lips drew into a tight line. Then he smirked. “Stick around, Ms. Feuer. You're a prime person of interest.”
She smirked in return.
“Thanks for the coffee.” Hunt bowed his balding head.
Eda showed them the door and Buddy showed them her finger…
* * *
“Gotta love that gal,” Rey grinned, taking the leash from Linda.
“She's got spunk,” I agreed, warily eyeing cumulonimbus – or thunderstorm – clouds.
“We have a few folks to interview,” Rey affirmed. “Let's see where these folks take us.”
“Hopefully, not for a ride,” Linda commented wryly, looking skyward with a glower as a river of wetness surged.
Chapter Five
“Of course Buddy Feuer didn't do it. Who told you she did?” I demanded, already knowing who had tattled to Ricardo Mako Picolo. It could only have been one person: Kent “The Source” Winche.
“Winche,” the health-food freak confirmed, munching noisily, probably a mung-bean, pea-sprout muffin, his favorite according to an article I'd read earlier. “Actually, he said she was a person of interest … or did he say suspect? Whatever. He doesn't believe she did it.”
I paced my kitchen like a tin duck target at a fair ground concession booth. Every time I passed the counter, I poked a trio of bananas perched in a white wicker basket.
It was hard to say why Jimmy Picolo's slick (as in oil-spill, slippery-slimy) brother proved annoying. Maybe it was the self-satisfied, perpetually tanned face I'd viewed in photos. He sported a nose too perfect to have been born with. Evidently, he and his niece shared the same cosmetic surgeon. He was as handsome as his brother, but more a combination of Bobby Darren of T.J. Hooker fame and Ryo Ishibashi as Detective Toshihuru Kuroda in Suicide Club. Asian-cast root-beer brown eyes seemed to challenge; they, like the thin lips pulled into a smug smile, expressed a sense of superiority. As it had in interviews, the man's mega ego blazed like a Times Square billboard.
“Thank heavens for the pretty boy's support,” I responded wryly.
“He's a big fan of Buddy's.” Munch, munch. Crunch, crunch. Must be macadamias in that muffin, too. “Winche'll give his eye teeth – letteralmente – to reinforce that she didn't do it. He claims she could never kill anyone in a million years. She's too cute.”
“Too cute?”
“He's got a real thing for her. Anyway, with you helping, she shouldn't worry herself none.” I could hear the simper. “I heard you girls did a solid job working the Howell case.”
“Really?” I was nonplussed.
“When I got your message, I had you checked out. I do that with everyone whose call I'm thinking of returning.”
When I didn't respond, he chuckled and slurped. Was he also indulging in one of his famous wheatgrass-beetroot smoothies? “I got a proposition. You interested?”
“If it will clear our client's name, of course,” I responded casually. Poke, poke. The bananas were beginning to look as if they'd encountered a frenzied chimp.
“Here's what we're going to do.”
We're?
“We're going to find the prick that killed my brother. The why would be a bonus, but the who is the important answer.”
I dropped onto counter stool and rested my chin on the granite counter. “What's in it for you, Mr. Picolo?” Poke, poke. Oh-oh. The bananas lay on the polished hardwood floor like washed-up marine creatures. Button ambled over, pawed them, sniffed, and flopped onto the floor with a loud sigh.
“Like I said, knowing who killed my brother. The other guy who got rubbed out I could care less about … but his family would like to know, I'm sure. Anyway, I'll add some incentives.”
“Incentives?” I asked, puzzled.
Ricardo's laughter was reminiscent of microwaved popcorn: staccato, abrupt. Heh-heh. Heh-heh-heh. “Yeah, incentives. First one: twenty-five K.”
Nice incentive. “Second?”
“Coco Peterson's tattoo and jewelry. It wouldn't do for the cops to find them, would it?”
“What the frig?” flew out of my mouth like a horse embarking on a steeplechase before I could contain it.
“There are a lot of different fingerprints in and around Coco's stuff. Possibly Buddy's, too.”
What was he talking about? “I'll bite. Why wouldn't it do for the police to find the tattoo and jewelry?”
“Well, let me think on it.” He paused for dramatic effect. Or perhaps to consider his smoothie. Ricardo Picolo, unlike his brother, did not speak with a quasi-Australian accent, but he did have a habit of over-pronouncing certain words. “Well”, for example, sounded like a deep-South twang: “wee-eellll”.
“Mr. Razor may be inclined to talk,” he continued, sounding uncharacteristically flustered, maybe at having found the great cosmos in the foamy drink or a belly-up bug.
I sniffed. “I understand the man has no tongue.”
“I could be inclined to talk.”
Did he have information about the killings? Did he have something to do with one or both? What could he reveal that might prove damaging to Buddy? And what about Coco's tatt and jewelry? “I suggest you think about any inclination to talk very carefully, Mr. Picolo –”
> “Ric, please.”
“There's an old saying: loose lips sink ships. If you talk, Ric, you yourself may go down with that ship.” I advised coolly, watching Button pad across the living room to her favorite bed. A walk – a diversion – on this pleasant Sunday afternoon was definitely in order.
“If I go down, dear, you're dead.”
* * *
“He said what?” Buddy asked, sounding neither disturbed nor surprised as she led the way to the kitchen. It was fragrant with herbs, spices and garlic, thanks to a homemade pasta sauce and Caesar salad she was preparing.
A large coffee-pot clock above a handsome yellow Bertazzoni gas range stove said it was 4:15 p.m. The expansive kitchen was as stylish as the rest of the grand three-thousand square-foot condo.
I repeated Ric's threat.
“I can't imagine what he might know, unless he's behind the killings,” she said nonchalantly, stirring fresh basil into a heavy-gauge, stainless steel Lagostina pot.
“What did he mean by Coco's tattoo and jewelry?”
“You have me, JJ.” She shrugged. “May I get you a drink? Wine? Club soda or mineral water?”
“Club soda would be great.” I strolled around and stopped before the lanai, which was decorated in shades of butternut squash and eggplant. Rattan and wicker seemed to be the preferred choice. The room also served as home to an abundance of tropical plants and ferns; for those who suffered from Little Shop of Horrors or The Day of the Triffids nightmares, the dense foliage might prove oppressive. “Do you think Ric's capable of murder?”
She strolled to a mammoth stainless-steel French-door fridge. “Ric is capable of selling his own mother to a terrorist organization if it helps him with his own causes, like turning more profits.”
“How did the brothers get along?”
“Like divorcees Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger back in the day.” She placed a can of club soda, a glass with ice and lemon, and a bottle of Evian on a counter of brown polished quartzite. “They'd been close … close-ish … a decade ago. In fact, Ric had been a partner in JSP Capital & Credit Corporation, but sold his interest when a falling out occurred during the racketeering allegations.”