Stuck with a Stiff

by Scott, D. D.

  I laid my head against the blizzard-chilled glass. Even the breathtaking skyline of one of my favorite cities couldn’t obliterate my lingering thoughts of Liza and the Mom Squad.

  What was it? What was eating at my subconscious? What was I missing?

  I stared at the whiteboard while it stared back at me.

  Shit! That’s it! Bingo!

  You’re dead meat, Bitchy Betty. Pun intended.

  • • •

  Three hours later, Sam, Todd, Captain Allen and I were seated in my living room, waiting on my chef to finish preparing dinner.

  “I gotta hand it to you, Nick,” the Captain said, “I like your theories.”

  “Not bad at all, Cap,” Todd agreed. “Odd, but actually quite plausible.”

  “I must say, I’m pretty psyched to get the toxicology reports,” I added, feeling very confident that I’d finally figured out an angle that could save me and bring us much closer to nailing Jack Collins’ killer.

  “You always have been strong on the walk-up, Nicky,” Sam said.

  Had I just heard correctly? Was Allwitch actually paying me a compliment? And damn if I didn’t deserve one.

  The whiteboard had finally revealed the missing piece of the puzzle. Well, the board, and the fact that The Mom Squad-ers seemed to have been as stuck as much as I was on the crime scene information not adding up.

  From the very first moment I saw Jack as a murder victim, something had seemed off to me about the crime scene.

  Something about the red-tinged snow cones Jack’s motionless body had left in the deep drifts surrounding him. But I hadn’t been able to put my finger on just what that something was until now.

  “I can’t believe I hadn’t made that connection yet,” Sam said, shaking her head for the umpteenth time since I’d called everyone back to my penthouse. “A corpse doesn’t bleed. How could I have missed that?”

  “I can’t believe it took me so long after the ME gave us the TOD,” I said, taking my turn at shaking heads. “What was coming out of Jack wasn’t blood, and that’s why the color was off and should have triggered immediately that we weren’t dealing with a fresh kill.”

  “Right. What we saw at that scene was serum, the reddish brown liquid part of the blood along with purge fluids,” Todd added.

  “Of course. The serum is that more blackish-colored flow from the nose and mouth, right?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. Those fluids wouldn’t appear until a couple of days following death. And given the cold environment surrounding the body, they could have been delayed much longer than the norm,” Captain Allen confirmed.

  “So, how Jack died is now our primary question. And that should let me and my fence post driver off the hook,” I said then raised my wine glass to offer a toast.

  “Not so fast, Nick,” Captain Allen said, leaving his glass on the coffee table.

  “Your fence post driver is off the hook. But I’m afraid you aren’t,” Todd confirmed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “What do you mean I’m still not off the hook?! My fence post driver wasn’t the murder weapon!” I said, hearing how loud my voice was getting and feeling heat flash my cheeks.

  My anger at this entirely absurd saga was soaring to Sears Tower heights.

  “When Jack was murdered, I was in Chicago. I wasn’t even at the farm.”

  “Jack was in Chicago too, Nick,” Todd said, taking a large gulp of wine.

  The room was silent a moment. All that could be heard was the fierce wind whipping the snow in dizzying swirls around my picture windows.

  “It’s just a coincidence, because he wasn’t with me. We all know who I was with, and I’m sure that’s provided a bounty of amusing conversation.”

  “But he was with you…according to the calendar on his iPhone,” Captain Allen said.

  He spoke in a soft, low voice, with a tone that indicated I should choose my next words carefully.

  With all the wine I had in my private cellar, I couldn’t have shaken the unease those words brought.

  “I don’t understand. You can check with Betty, my publicist…shit! Fuck me.”

  No one needed to say another word. Of course Jack’s calendar would say that. And mine would certainly have been altered to match Jack’s also, thanks to our mutual publicist.

  “So what do we do now?” I asked, having no idea what to do next, although I sure as hell hoped they had a plan.

  “I’m afraid all we can do is wait,” Todd said, helping himself to another glass of Pinot Grigio.

  “For what? Or who? And don’t even tell me those crazy-ass Mom Squad-ers.”

  “You got any better ideas?” Sam quipped, her eyes narrowed into the slits that meant I was due for another ass chewing.

  “Perhaps,” I muttered, not even convincing myself. “Not right now. But perhaps soon.”

  At that, the Captain started in on his wine too.

  • • •

  What a way to ruin a five star chef’s meal, I thought, picking at the food on my plate. As I poked at a parmesan-crusted spear of asparagus, Todd’s cell phone rang, causing me to drop my fork onto the china plate. My nerves were just shot. Totally shot.

  “I see. That helps a great deal. Keep me posted. Thanks, Roman.”

  Todd finished his call, set down his napkin and cleared his throat.

  “Apparently, Betty was also in Chicago Saturday night. And she had dinner reservations as well. With Jack. 7 PM at Optics.”

  “That’s impossible!” I knew I was screaming, but dammit, this was ridiculous. “I was at Optics at 7 PM. And they weren’t there!”

  I pounded on the table, sending water and wine sloshing out of glasses that had just been topped off all around the table.

  As the wine made patterns on the tablecloth eerily similar to those Jack’s body fluids had made in the snow, I began to feel slightly nauseated.

  “Easy, Nicky. This could actually help us,” Sam said, putting her hand on my arm.

  “How could that possibly be a good thing?” I asked, for the first time, not feeling any sort of comfort from her touch.

  “Sam’s right, Nick,” Captain Allen cut-in. “Let’s see if she can alibi out. Just because someone says they were someplace, or were supposed to be, doesn’t mean they actually were.”

  “But not everyone has the help of a publicist who’s out to bring you down,” I said, stabbing my asparagus and wishing it was Betty.

  “She’ll screw up. If she hasn’t already,” Sam said. “She’s not that smart.”

  “Seems like she’s done pretty well so far,” I said, my hands actually shaking while I attempted to eat what was left on my plate.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Todd said, setting his phone back on the table.

  I’d been so wrapped up in self-pity, I didn’t even realize he’d been on the phone again.

  “That was Lily Vaughn.”

  Great. Now I’d have to hear what else the Mom Squad-ers had unearthed to help speed up my express train to the slammer.

  “They found an interesting receipt in Betty’s apartment,” Todd said, exchanging his plate for the decadent dessert my chef had prepared.

  “They’re in her apartment?!” Sam made the sign of the cross and wasted no time digging into her creme brulee.

  So much for her Buddhism.

  “Apparently so.” Todd and The Captain exchanged rather stiff smiles before Todd continued. “And it involves a $25,000 payment to a well-known Chicago thug.”

  “Told ya the bitch wasn’t too bright,” Sam said, raising her wine glass to toast her instincts.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nothing gets my heart pumping like a stakeout, I thought, biting into the still warm lemon creme donut Captain Allen had treated me to.

  “Thanks so much for letting me tag along,” I said between bites.

  “You signed the waiver. So if you don’t return to the squad room in one piece, it’s no skin off my back,” he said then laughed while fin
ishing his second donut and reaching for his coffee.

  “And please, no cops and donuts jokes.”

  This time, it was me that was laughing.

  That’s one of the things I’ve always enjoyed about researching the law enforcement world. I love the sense of humor. It’s usually dark and often over the line inappropriate, which helps to add another colorful layer to my books. Alright. Nicky’s books. Whatever. By the time I get him to actually write one, and I clean it up, it feels like it might as well be mine too.

  “You nailed it when it came to Betty’s lack of cunning. I’m not sure she could have left a more obvious trail for us to follow.”

  “She’s dumb. But I hadn’t had her pegged as quite this dumb,” I said, blowing on my coffee to try to lower it to a temperature less likely to scald off multiple layers of my tongue.

  “I hear ya. But…there he is. There’s our guy. And check out his size. I’d say we’ve got at least Size 13 Double E’s in those boots,” he said.

  Great. All the other stakeouts I’d been on had lasted hours. And the one time I wouldn’t mind spending time in the car with a research subject, our thug shows up right away. Go figure.

  “Looks like he’s on the phone,” I said, barely able to see out my window due to the film of ice with fog splotches from the steam from our coffee.

  “You got that call?” The Captain said into his Nextel.

  “We got it,” Todd’s voice filled the phone’s speaker.

  “Boy, Roman’s guys work fast.”

  “They do indeed, Cap.”

  We waited and watched while our thug - Lucky Morello - paced the icy sidewalks with his cell phone against his ear. The fact that I’d now seen him kick a trash can as well slam his SUV door led me to believe he wasn’t feeling much love for the person on the other end of that conversation.

  “Check out that Range Rover. Perfect sized tires to match the tracks at Nicky’s lake house,” the Captain said while busy capturing the entire incident on from his squad’s built-in video recording system.

  “Excellent,” I said, thrilled we were finally getting some major leads.

  It was only a few seconds after Lucky threw his phone across the front seat of his Range Rover that Todd’s voice once again crackled through the two-way radio.

  “Apparently, our suspect fucked up royally,” Todd said, then laughed. “Pun intended. Oops. Sorry for the language, Sam.”

  “No harm done,” I said. “So, what has our guy’s panties in such a twist?”

  “I think that would be who has his panties twisted. According to the ass-chewing he just received from Betty, he offed the wrong guy.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not following you,” I said, truly confused.

  “Betty paid him to get rid of Nicky, not Jack. And she wants her money back.”

  Even though I was still wearing thick mittens and cradling a cup of hot coffee, my hands were suddenly ice cold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Roman had his men on Lucky Morello detail, so Captain Allen and I were free to head to Optics. We wanted to get a feel for the place and maybe talk to the staff to see if any of them heard or saw anything strange last Saturday night. Even more important, we needed to find out who really had been there that night and who hadn’t.

  The minute we walked into the restaurant, it was clear why local mobsters would hang here. Sophisticated and classy, oozing wealth and power, not to mention the drama the red walls added to the upscale ambiance.

  We were lead to a table for two along one side of the eatery. While admiring the stunning exposed brick wall with velvet curtains, I slid into the booth side of the table. Captain Allen, looking rather distressed, started to sit down in the chair on the opposite side, but then stopped.

  “Would you mind if we traded seats?” He asked, still appearing very restless.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t have my back to the door or the rest of the room. It’s an old cop thing.”

  “Sounds pretty smart to me. No apology necessary,” I said, switching sides.

  I settled into my seat, then looked rather anxiously over my shoulder. Wow. He’s right. It is kind of uncomfortable not knowing what’s going on behind you.

  “So, what’s our plan here?” I asked, putting my napkin on my lap and reaching for the wine menu.

  “Watch and learn,” he said with the slightest hint of a smile.

  He pulled out a leather wallet-sized badge holder from inside his jacket and simply flashed it to our waiter. Amazingly enough, the manager was descending the grand glass staircase from the upstairs dining room and heading for our table within seconds.

  I liked Captain Allen’s style.

  “How can I help you, Sir?”

  “We’re investigating the death of Jack Collins and need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. We were all so saddened to hear of his passing. Mr. Collins was just here last Saturday, although he and his date left early because he wasn’t feeling well.”

  I looked at Captain Allen but didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. Neither did he.

  “Wasn’t Nicky Blane also dining here that evening?”

  “Why, yes. He certainly was. At the same time as Mr. Collins. However, they each had their own private table. In fact, we had a rather unfortunate mix-up with Mr. Blane’s bill. I’m still not quite sure what happened, but I do think we resolved the situation to Mr. Blane’s satisfaction.”

  “What kind of mix-up?” The Captain pressed on.

  “Well…for some reason, a bottle of wine delivered to Mr. Collin’s table ended up being added to Mr. Blane’s bill. A very expensive bottle. He insisted he hadn’t ordered it even though Mr. Collins received a note with the bottle letting him know it was from Mr. Blane. It was all very confusing.”

  I put my hand to my mouth, afraid I couldn’t keep quiet much longer.

  “By chance, do you know if Mr. Collins or his date

  had any wine from that bottle?”

  The manager thought for a moment, tapping a black Montblanc pen against his chin, clearly pleased with the opportunity to show it off.

  “Let’s see. He and his lady friend had already ordered their dinner, and she’d excused herself to go to the ladies room. Shortly thereafter, she came back to the table, learned that Mr. Collins wasn’t feeling well and asked for their dinner to go.”

  “Would this be Jack’s lady friend?” the Captain asked, holding up a press shot I’d given him of Bitchy Betty.

  “Yes. I believe so. Although, I think her hair may have been a different color,” the manager said, almost blushing. “You know how women are these days.”

  I know Betty has never changed her hair color in the fifteen years I’ve known her. So, why would she have done so last Saturday night unless she didn’t want to be recognized. Probably a wig, I thought, making a mental note to have The Mom Squad see if they could find one in her apartment.

  “Upon being notified by their server, I saw to it that their meals were being properly prepared for them to take home and came out to the table to wish them well. I clearly remember seeing the bottle on the table and then feeling bad because neither Mr. Collins or his date appeared to be well. He looked very ill, and she was frantic. To answer your question, no, I don’t believe the bottle was still full.”

  “How can you be certain either of them drank any wine from that bottle?”

  “Because, I know…knew quite well, Mr. Collins’ food and wine proclivities.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following you,” the Captain said, looking exhausted from this whole spiel.

  The manager laughed in a way that signaled he was even more uncomfortable with what he was about to divulge.

  “Mr. Collins had his own unique way of ordering or accepting a bottle of wine. His eccentricities have become legend among my staff. As you no doubt know, it’s customary at fine establishments such as Optics to offer a taste of the wine b
efore a guest is obliged to accept a bottle.”

  Captain Allen and I stared up at him, making it perfectly clear that we were becoming impatient with his Wine Tasting 101 tutorial and avoidance of our question.

  “I hate to speak ill of the departed, but Mr. Collins had a rather generous notion of what constituted a taste. If a bottle of wine found its way onto his table, it would have already lost, at a minimum, a quarter of its contents.”

  The Captain and I exchanged glances while the manager looked increasingly uneasy.

  “I remember being particularly disappointed that evening. The salt-crusted bass was one of Mr. Collins’ favorite dishes, and I knew it wouldn’t be nearly as wonderful if it was to be reheated the next day.”

  That was it. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “You

  remember what they ordered?”

  “Of course. I always remember what our high profile customers order and whether or not they enjoy their meals. When one of them makes a reservation, you can be certain the kitchen will not run low on their favorite entrees on that particular evening.”

  “So, what did Mr. Blane’s date order that night?” I asked.

  I had to test him a little further.

  “Let’s see. I believe he and his escort, I mean date,” the manager said, his face turning as red as the wall behind him, “uhm…yes, they both had the bass. It’s also one of Mr. Blane’s favorites.”

  Well, it wasn’t the bass that was deadly, I thought, but kept that notion to myself. If it was, we’d have more than one vic.

  “I’ll need to know more about that bottle of wine,” Captain Allen said.

  “Sure. Let me go check my computer records.”

  “I thought you always know what your guests order.”

  “I do, Sir. However, in this case, the wine had not been ordered by either patron. In fact, we determined that it had been called in for Mr. Collins, and although we’d written down that it was Mr. Blane who’d made the call, he said it wasn’t him.”