I got out and did what men have been doing since the dawn of time. I followed the lady.
*
As shabby apartment buildings go, the Wickersham wasn’t so bad. No rats scurried past the baseboards, and the air was mostly breathable. Rosenthal’s apartment was up three floors, but we took the stairs by mutual agreement. The rusting gates on the elevator didn’t inspire the confidence that Mister Otis’ name once engendered.
The hallway on the third floor was empty of people. We found Rosenthal’s apartment and I knocked.
The unlatched door swung open on well-oiled hinges. The building must have been better cared for than I had been willing to give credit. It was an incongruous thought, given what sprawled on the floor in front of me. It was the body of a man, tall, thin and scruffy. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling with lifeless eyes framed by wireframe glasses. His torso was soaked in blood; a bloody chest wound the source. The smell of gunpowder and death was strong. A simple job gets you every time.
I pulled Brigid into the apartment and closed the door. No reason to invite the rest of the world into the scene.
I knelt next to the body and held a finger to his neck. No pulse, not that I expected to find one. That was also the moment when I realized the woman standing behind me had quite a few reasons to see this man dead—twenty-five grand worth of reasons, every three months. She also carried a purse large enough to hold a good-sized pistol. Maybe even the same as the one that put a good-sized hole in Rosenthal’s chest.
I stood up slowly and turned to face her. My relief at not facing a pistol must have been evident as her eyes narrowed.
“What? You thought—”
Her reply to my unvoiced suspicion was hushed before it began when we heard a toilet flush from somewhere inside the apartment. I pointed at the door. “Go out in the hallway, quick,” I hissed. I took up a position flat against the wall where the hallway began, just in time to see Brigid duck behind a sofa in the tiny living room. There was a heavy table lamp within reach. I grabbed it and raised it over my head.
Whoever it was, they were taking their sweet time. I found myself staring at a Grateful Dead poster. The seconds ticked by and the lamp grew heavy.
Brigid stood up from behind the sofa. “Hey, jerk face,” she shouted, then ducked back down.
I saw a shadow move on the hallway wall, and readied the lamp.
He came fast, and I had forgotten to unplug the lamp. The cord caught and deflected the lamp. He was raising his pistol when the lamp crashed down on his arm. The gun clattered to the floor and he knelt down to grab for it. I kicked it away, and then jumped on his back as he scrambled for the gun, knocking him flat on the floor. I pulled his arms up behind him.
That should have stopped him, but Paul, the clerk at the FedUps store, fought with the frenzy of a desperate man. Again and again he came near to slipping out of my grasp.
Fights in movies are accompanied by stirring music. Our fight was in silence, save for grunts, sharp breaths, and our shoes scuffing the floor.
A cocking pistol halted our fight and by unspoken consent we cast our eyes in that direction.
Brigid held Paul’s gun in both hands, and she held it like she knew what she was doing. I couldn’t tell if she was aiming at me or at Paul. I got the feeling he didn’t know either. A long silence followed.
“Well, don’t just lie there, you dope,” she said at last. “You’re the detective, not me. Tie the guy up or something and let’s call the cops.”
Not the sweetest phrase by any stretch, but a welcome one, all the same.
*
I stopped at the Double Tap Lounge the next evening. It’s a bar down in Cow Hollow that caters to private detectives. I knew I was in for some ribbing from my colleagues and competition, and figured I might as well get it over with.
“You have got to be kidding.” Jens shook his head in disbelief when I finished the story. “You let the perp razzle you?”
“I don’t get it,” complained Marty, who never got it. “How’d the FedUps guy get the photographs?”
“Rich Rosenthal was cleaning out his old files,” I explained. “He was taking his photos in batches down to Paul’s store to scan and save them on a data stick.”
Marty nodded. “And Paul stole the stick. I get it.”
“No. He hacked into the store’s copier and was surfing images left on it by customers. He had been doing it for months. When he recognized Brigid Morgan’s face in the photo, he knew he’d struck gold.”
“And then our pal here,” Jens slapped me on the back, a hefty, hearty slap. “Let the guy bamboozle him with one of the oldest dodges in the business.”
“Okay.” Marty nodded again. “I get that, I think. But why did he kill the photographer after putting the finger on him?”
“He figured if Rich were dead, the case would be closed.” I gave a silent prayer that that was the last time I would have to tell the story.
“Alright, everybody, listen up.” Jens’ voice boomed through the room and brought a dozen conversations to silence. How a bearded, bald giant stayed the best undercover man in the business I never understood, but that was Jens.
“As you know, it is our custom at the Double Tap to assess a fine upon those of our trade who royally screw up.” A ragged cheer came from all but me. “Accordingly, our friend will graciously buy a round on the house.” Another cheer.
I stood, waved them quiet, then dropped a couple of century notes on the table. “That should cover the drinks.” I made a show of checking the time. “But if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I have a date to keep.”
I tipped my hat and left to catcalls and jeers. Outside the Double Tap Lounge, a powder-blue TR6 idled next to the curb, the passenger door an open invitation.
Beautiful Killer
Judy Penz Sheluk
The whole of the Quick River is about three miles long and a few yards wide, an insignificant tributary that cuts through the heart of Quick County. Billy used to call it Speedy Creek.
It’s been twenty years since I’ve been back, and at first glance not much has changed. The cluster of clapboard cabins dotting the Quick’s rocky shoreline still need a good coat of fire, and the public dock still leans haphazardly to the left. Even the Quick ’n Slow Diner seems stuck in time, its chinked logs weather-beaten to a dull gray, the tables inside scarred by decades of hot plates and hard times.
The restaurant is empty, save for a thirty-something man I take to be the proprietor. The lack of customers doesn’t surprise me. It’s early April, too soon for rentals.
“Welcome. What brings you here on such a miserable day? GPS take a wrong turn?” The man says it with an easy smile. Something about him is familiar, but I can’t stick a pin in it.
“My folks used to rent one of the cabins every season. I spent most of my summers here as a teenager.” I grin, feel it tug on my lips like plastic surgery gone wrong. “It was longer ago than I care to admit.”
“I knew it. You’re Carly.” He sticks out his hand, the skin roughened by years of washing dishes and peeling potatoes. “Dan Porter. Billy’s kid brother. It’s been a while.”
“Danny…how did I miss it? You must think I’ve turned into one of those snooty city slickers from up at the Resort.” I take his hand and study him. He’s taller than I remember, a few pounds heavier, but he’s got Billy’s eyes. Black-rimmed gray flecked with blue.
“No worries. I’ve lost most of my hair since then.” Danny runs his fingers through the thinning strands, pats his paunch, and laughs. “Put on some weight, too. You though, you haven’t changed a bit. The years have been kind.”
They haven’t, but I don’t answer. It doesn’t seem right to reply with a glib remark about crow’s feet and cellulite. Or tell the story of my somewhat pathetic life.
Danny stickhandles the moment with another easy smile. “You never did say. What brings you back?”
“I suppose I wanted to find myself again.” Spoken
out loud, the admission seems lame at best, sanctimonious at worst.
But Danny seems to accept it. “You want to talk? Coffee’s on the house.”
“I’m not sure where to start,” I say, but pull up a seat overlooking the river.
Danny walks over to the front door, hangs a “Closed” sign in the window. “You still drink your coffee black?”
“You’ve got a good memory. What were you? Fifteen to my eighteen?”
“Something like that,” he says, and a flash of embarrassment flickers across his face. “God, I had such a crush on you. Course, everyone knew you only had eyes for Billy.”
“Billy.” My heart ached at the memory of him. The way his fingers traced every vertebrae of my spine as I lay face down on the dock, the sun shimmering on my bronzed skin. The way his lips would part, ever so softly, just before he leaned down to kiss me. There was the rest of the world, and then there was Billy.
“He was the first boy to break my heart, did you know that? Dumped me a week before my eighteenth birthday. Didn’t even stop by the cabin. Just phoned, said he was going around with Roxanne Reesor.” I attempt a smile, as if the whole thing is barely remembered teenaged angst. “That’s what we used to call having sex back then. Going around with each other. I wasn’t ready. It cost me Billy.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Billy had a way of breaking hearts to keep his own intact. He used to say people got lost in love, but he wasn’t going to be one of them. Bullshit, really, though I used to believe it. If it’s any consolation, Billy broke up with Roxanne right after you left for school. She never got over him.”
“I guess it shouldn’t be, after all these years, but it kind of is. I like to imagine her dried up by bitterness and booze.” I blush at the admission. “Roxanne never did bring out the best in me. I’ve often wondered what became of her.”
“She married me. Any Porter in a storm.” Danny’s witticism is watered down by years in the telling; he looks out the window, self-conscious, his eyes scanning the river. “Roxanne was like the purple loosestrife that creeps along the shore of the Quick every summer. Tall, spiky stalks so lovely in bloom, yet destructive, relentless in its life-choking stranglehold. Takes hold and won’t let go, the roots growing a foot deep and more. The beautiful killer, some folks call it.” His fingers trace the rim of his coffee mug. “She left me fifteen years ago, come the tenth of July.”
Fifteen years. I wonder at what point he’ll stop marking the anniversary. “I’m sorry.”
Danny looks deep into my eyes. His pain radiates, hot and raw and exposed, as if it’s been simmering under the surface waiting for someone to come along and pick off the scab.
“I tried to stop her,” he says, his voice breaking. “I was too late.”
“You can’t stop someone from leaving. Not if they want to go. You can’t let it consume you.” I say the words softly and wish I could follow my own advice.
“It’s not that,” Danny says, and gets up to flip the sign on the door to “Open.” For the first time I notice the black marble plaque hanging next to the entrance, the words etched in gold leaf, a spiky stalk of flowers engraved into each corner.
In Memory of
WILLIAM (BILLY) PORTER
ROXANNE (REESOR) PORTER
Lost in Love
July 10, 2000
The Fruit of Thy Loins
Albert Tucher
Diana raised her fist to knock, but the door swung inward. That left her looking as if she planned to rap on the forehead of the young woman who confronted her in the doorway.
The idea had merit. Diana didn’t need competition on her own territory. The other woman was in her early twenties, with eyes of a piercing blue. The eyes looked familiar, or maybe they just made a striking contrast with her dark hair and complexion.
She stepped back and held the door open.
“He’s all yours.”
Diana nodded minimal thanks and entered the motel room. There was her client Stephen on the bed. He showed no reaction to the little drama at the door, but many men noticed nothing that didn’t hit them over the head.
Diana’s hooker radar bleeped, and she looked again. Stephen had surrendered to gravity in a way that no living body could match.
She heard the door close, but that didn’t mean the brunette was on the other side of it.
Instinct told Diana to spin to her right. Her hand chopped the other woman’s wrist, and something fell onto the threadbare carpet. Diana completed her turn and threw a roundhouse left that shouldn’t have had a chance.
But Diana’s punch landed on the young woman’s cheek and threw her off balance. Diana shoved with her right hand, and her opponent sat hard on the floor. She groped for what she had just dropped, but Diana brushed it under the bed with her foot and made a mental note to look when she had time.
Diana steadied herself and kicked. She missed, but she kept her balance for another try. This time her stiletto heel connected with the woman’s jaw.
The brunette toppled onto her back and rolled onto her side. She drew her knees up to her chest, as if to protect herself from more punishment. But then her feet shot out and kicked Diana’s legs out from under her.
Diana landed on her hip and pivoted to face her opponent, but the young woman only wanted to get away. She scrambled to her feet and lurched toward the exit. This time the door banged shut with the brunette on the outside.
Diana tried to get up, but her left knee had taken the brunt of the kick. It buckled and dumped her on the rug again. Outside, an engine roared, and tires shrieked.
She looked around for the item that had fallen. She expected a knife, but it turned out to be a nasty syringe. Diana thought about picking it up to examine it, but she didn’t need the cops finding her fingerprints on it. It could stay where it was.
There had been a bag on the floor by the door, but the young woman had taken it on her way out. Diana remembered it as looking bigger than a basic receptacle for lube, wipes, condoms and a change of underwear.
She tried to get up again, and this time her knee cooperated. Her client still looked dead, and the syringe probably had something to do with it.
Next, she looked for a white envelope. If she found her money, the temptation would be hard to resist. But she knew who would be joining her soon, and he would not appreciate it if she interfered with his crime scene.
She found nothing on the flimsy table in the corner, on any of the counters in the bedroom or bathroom, or in the drawers of the bureau. The other woman must have taken the cash.
Murder and attempted murder were bad enough, but stealing from another hooker just wasn’t done.
Diana picked up the room phone and dialed 9-1-1. She had done it before, but never with a clearer conscience.
First to arrive was a uniformed officer, who frisked her with professional detachment and told her to stand against the wall. He watched her as he got on his handheld radio. She let him finish.
“Is Breitwieser coming?”
The officer ignored her, but she had made her point. She knew Detective Breitwieser, and it would be prudent for the officer to treat her right.
The man himself arrived fifteen minutes later in all his combed-over glory. He had a new suit that was blue instead of brown, and not his usual polyester.
It was still a 46-regular, but progress was progress.
“Just once,” said Breitwieser, “could I have a crime scene without you in the middle of it? Is that too much to ask?”
She let him vent. Their shared history might save her from going to the police station in handcuffs.
He turned to the uniformed officer.
“Get out there and start your crime scene log.”
The young man looked disappointed. An ambitious uniformed officer would want to get in on the investigation, but he knew enough to keep his mouth shut and follow orders.
Breitwieser turned back to her. “Tell.”
By now Diana knew that he liked his report
s detailed. When she got to describing the young woman, she could sense his interest.
“Does that ring a bell?”
“It might,” he said. “Did you know you were going to be changing shifts like that?”
“No, but it happens—a guy lining up dates back to back, or even back to back to back.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. The client’s money talks. Anyway, Stephen knew the rules. He would have tipped me. Not the same as a two-hour date, but worth swallowing my pride.”
“But your money walked.”
She shrugged. Breitwieser nodded at the syringe on the floor.
“How did she get him to hold still for that?”
“She had a bag. Bigger than mine, which tells me she was carrying fetish gear or a costume. If I had to guess, I’d say she was doing a nurse act.”
Someone knocked on the door, and the uniformed officer opened and poked his head inside.
“Crime scene guys are here, Detective.”
“Let’s take a ride to the station,” said Breitwieser. “Got something to show you.”
That was not good news. She had always avoided the Morristown station. But on the other hand, he made no move to cuff her, and in the parking lot he opened the passenger door and held it for her.
She did know a few other cop shops, and this one offered no surprises. When they arrived, he led her to a room with a video monitor and pointed at a plain plastic chair behind a table. He looked around the room.
“Shit,” he said. He went to the door and bellowed, “Who’s got the fucking remote this time?”
Diana pulled the chair out from the table and stopped herself from sitting on something that didn’t belong there. “Here it is.”
He took the remote from her and turned the monitor on. A moment later a brief video clip played. It showed a woman walking away from an expensive yacht. The camera had a poor angle. By looking down at her feet, the woman concealed her face.
But her movements were familiar, and so was the yacht behind her.
“Could that be her?” asked Breitwieser.
Flash and Bang Page 11