by David Stever
“I’m scared, and I don’t know who to talk to. Stan told me about you helping with the blackmail threat and I thought you could help with Kenzie.”
What else had Stan told her? “Kenzie?”
“She was my friend. I can’t believe she’s dead. We used to be roommates, and she got me my job.”
“At the escort service?”
She nodded and turned away, as if suddenly embarrassed by what she did for a living. I understood Stan’s attraction, though. She was medium height with curves in all the right places. Curly brown hair fell to her shoulders and her golden-brown eyes had a warmth to them that was inviting and unguarded. The women in her business, even the top-dollar girls, usually had the markings of a life scratched out from the streets: skin the color of an overcast sky, dark circles under the eyes, crow’s feet, and wrinkles appearing twenty years too early. A life filled with drugs, booze, cigarettes, and men who discarded them like old toys. She did not; she had a fresh clean look about her. Nobody would guess her profession. Most would imagine her as a soccer mom from the suburbs who worked nine-to-five in some innocuous corporate cubicle.
“Your last name DeRenzo?” I opened a bottle of a Cabernet and poured two glasses. I figured she would not object to smoothing off the edge a bit.
“You know? Of course you do. I never use my real name at work.”
“Understandable. Plenty of times I should have used another name.” She smiled, and I handed her a glass of wine.
“Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” I sat across from her.
“Too nervous. I heard how people can hack phones and listen to conversations.”
“Why are you nervous? Has anyone threatened you?”
“No, but Kenzie was scared.”
“Of what?”
“She wouldn’t say.” She hesitated, sipped her wine. “I pressed the issue, and she told me to stay out of it. Said I was better off not knowing anything.”
“Was she protecting you?”
She shrugged.
“Who told you Kenzie was killed? Her name has not been released.”
It was the only time she did not look at me when she spoke. Her eyes went down to the table for a second then back to me.
“A friend,” she said.
“How did your friend find out?”
“Umm…not sure.”
“And who’s your friend?”
“Rather not say. She told me in confidence. You understand.”
“She in the business?”
She nodded. Many years in the interrogation room taught me about eye contact when questioning a suspect. If they could not look me in the eye, it was a dead giveaway. Then there were the ones who would deliberately stare at me. In their mind, holding my gaze masked their guilt. Usually innocent ones would hold my eye in natural conversation, as Dee Dee did, except for the last few questions. Did the hooker network learn of Kenzie’s murder and spread the word, or did she just make a mistake?
“When did you last talk to Kenzie?”
“We met for lunch three days ago. We always tried to meet at least once a week.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?” I got up and grabbed a notebook and pen from the drawer.
“No.”
“She talk about any guys?”
“Sure. But once they found out she was an escort, they would split. We had fun with it though. We would go to a bar, guys would talk to us, and we would make up different careers. One night we would be nurses, the next night we became lawyers.” She threw her head back in a laugh. “The best one was when we told these two dudes we were in medical school to be gynecologists. They didn’t know what to say. We had a great laugh because what we do and what a gynecologist does do involve the same body part.”
We both laughed, then her tears fell. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said. I gave her a few napkins to dry her eyes. “Please find her killer. I’ll hire you.”
“I understand you want answers, but the police are on it. Be patient, let them do their job.”
“You and I both know it will go down as a hooker and a drug deal. Cops don’t care. All due respect. If she was from some fancy rich suburb, they’d be all over it. Kenzie will only be a statistic in a few days.”
“Not necessarily—”
“I can pay you, and I want the truth. She did not deserve to die the way she did. She was a good person. And my friend.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment. She wiped her eyes.
“Stan already hired me. I’ll do my best,” I said.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
She finished her wine and I offered a refill.
“No thanks. You are kind to hear me out. I should not have showed up like I did. I should go.”
“I’m glad you did.” We traded phone numbers and I called her a cab. “Anything else you can think of? Did she have any bad dates? Do drugs?”
“Nothing I can recall. And she was clean. Had been for years.”
“You think of anything, call me.”
“I will.” She put her hand on my arm. “And we’ll keep this meeting between us?”
“Of course.”
We went downstairs and waited in the bar for the cab. After she left, I went back to my condo and poured another glass of wine. I liked Dee Dee but a feeling of uncertainty crept in. What did she know and when? Those were the questions she planted in my head. Did she come to me because she was scared, or was she paving the way to sneak a peek at my playbook without revealing hers?
13
The morning was cool and crisp, and I hit the ground running. Literally. An avid runner I was not, but sometimes I found an early run cleared my head and countered my inherent aversion to exercise. My usual route was to leave my condo and head toward the docks, loop around them for a mile or so, then back home. Not today, though. After fifteen minutes of a decent pace, I found myself in front of the Harbor Lofts building where Stan kept an apartment. Also, the spot where Kenzie Fitzgerald was thrown from the van.
I stood on the curb, not far from where Katie and I had parked that night. A few early morning delivery trucks rumbled by. The city coming to life for another day.
The way the young woman died bothered me. I never met her, but she was the catalyst to why Stan came to me. He said she threatened to blackmail him, but I’m not sure of anything at this point except that Kenzie was dead and Dee Dee was afraid. Most detectives would begin their investigation with the victim. Who were her associates, friends, and family? Life as a hooker placed her on the wrong side of the tracks. Then throw in stacks of cash and an abundance of drugs, the mixture becomes lethal in no time flat. Nobody should die the way she did, but the scumbags who killed her, they deserved to suffer. And part of me wanted to make that happen.
The question I did not ask Dee Dee was the one any decent detective would lead with: “Where were you when Kenzie was murdered?” Stan told me they were to meet at his love nest of a loft. Stan also panicked when he could not reach her by phone, later to learn she wasn’t feeling well and took some cold medicine and fell asleep. She did not seem sick last night. Only scared. Why did my gut tell me I lacked the truth?
Did Dee Dee launch some sort of a pre-emptive strike by coming to my place last night? Was she afraid I would uncover something she wanted to keep covered? Did she want to ally with me, so I’d place her in the “good guy” column?
“Delarosa?”
A man’s voice, but familiar. I turned around to find Paul Ellison behind me. “A little early for you, isn’t it?”
“I can’t do it,” he said.
“What?”
“Run. I tried once. Bought new running shoes and gym shorts. The whole bit. Went to a high school and thought I would start by running around the track a few times. I made it about a hundred yards and couldn’t decide if I should call an ambulance or an undertaker. Went home, showered, poured a drink, ordered a pizza, and gave my new workout gear to the first homeles
s guy I saw.”
“Running is not for everyone.”
“Not in the least.”
“You could try walking.”
He had a cup of coffee in his hand. “Perfect. I walked from the car to here.”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Same reason you are. Working the case. Each new visit to the crime scene always reveals a new piece to the puzzle. As long as you let it.”
“Ah, the stuff they don’t teach in detective school.”
“Yep. Stand still, observe, and listen. Let the scene fill your senses with information.” He set his coffee cup on the curb, stood erect with his arms out, and closed his eyes. “Do not say a word. I need to concentrate and allow the spirit of Kenzie Fitzgerald to talk to me.”
Oh, brother. “And what information is her spirit transmitting?”
“No talking. I can’t concentrate if you distract me.”
“If a patrol car drives by, I’m not saving your ass.” I waited ten seconds. “How many have you had?”
“John? What do you take me for?”
“We worked in the same unit for eight years. I knew you better than your first two wives.”
He opened his eyes and picked up his coffee. “Hey, the Irish say you can’t drink all day if you don’t start early. Plus, you broke my concentration by bringing up my ex-wives. Horrible, evil women. Why would you ruin my morning?”
“Yeah, my bad. You were the one drunk all the time and they were evil.”
“It was because of them I drank.”
“I’m leaving,” I said. “Don’t forget our deal.”
“What? You don’t want to know what the spirit of Kenzie told me?”
“That you shouldn’t drink your breakfast?”
“Aw, I miss you, Johnny boy. That sense of humor.”
He teetered on the curb while I stood with my arms folded and eyebrows raised.
“See the building right there?” He pointed to the Harbor Lofts. “Owned by one Stan Shelton. Remember him?”
“Of course. Football player, now owns car dealerships.”
“You said your client is high profile and wanted to keep his name out of the papers.”
I shrugged.
“We both know the girl was dumped on this spot. The first thing I did is see who owns the buildings in the area. And to my surprise, the Harbor Lofts is owned by a company controlled by Stan Shelton. So, I thought, was the old quarterback the target of the message? He doesn’t exactly have a saintly past.”
“What can I say?”
“I might be a drunk, my friend, but I’m still a damn smart detective.”
“Best I ever worked with.”
“Three days, John.”
I watched him as he walked a half a block and got into his car. He drove off as sober as a nun on Sunday.
14
Aplate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast appeared in front of me. My favorite breakfast in the best diner in town. When Nancy spots me coming through the door, my order goes in.
“Haven’t seen you in a week or so. Been away?” Nancy said, as she refilled my coffee.
“Nah. Was doing some work out at my beach place. Came back two days ago when a new case came my way. Mike and Katie are on their way.”
“Team meeting? I hope you are buying.”
“Of course.”
“Good, because I doubt you would open that musty wallet and spring for breakfast for the heck of it.”
“Hey, I’m a good boss.”
“And here you are in the cheapest place in town.” She winked and went to another table. Nancy Carlisle and her husband Bill bought the diner, named it Nancy’s, a year after he joined the Port City Police Department. She ran it during the week, and he helped on weekends. Ten years later cancer cut short their life together, leaving Nancy to run it by herself. It was her saving grace, though. It kept her busy while she worked through her grief.
After my unexpected meeting with Paul Ellison in front of the Harbor Lofts building, I ran back to my condo, showered, and sent a text message to Katie and Mike, inviting them to breakfast. Time to bring them up to speed and do some strategizing.
Mike arrived first and sat opposite. “What’s up, partner?”
“Stan Shelton case.”
“Yeah? Do tell.”
“I’ll wait for Blondie.” I brought him current on what we discovered so far: Dee Dee, her brother Anthony, Kenzie, the warehouse of Entertainment Ventures, and the girl in the green Jag.
He shook his head. “I never liked Shelton. Loudmouth, king of the bullshit. You need to be careful jumping into his world. As a baseline, you probably only get half the truth with him at all times. He was a gambler and a cheat from the start. One of those guys always hustling somebody. Then he slaps his name on car dealerships. Perfect business for him. All hype and promotion.”
“All this before your morning coffee.”
Nancy came to the table. “Hi lover.” She sat down next to Mike. “About time you came in. I’m stuck here dreaming about the day you sweep me off my feet and we run off together.”
“Darling, I am almost there. Only need to save up a few more bucks, then off we go.”
“Broken record with you. A girl can only wait so long.” She stood and ran a hand through his hair. “You are going to miss your chance. I can only hold Johnny off for so long and he’s wearing me down.”
“Damn right,” I said. “He who hesitates, loses. When you are knocking on the front door, I’ll be taking her out the back.”
“Sounds like you two have this all planned. I’m going to make my own breakfast.” Mike started to stand, and she pushed him back down in his seat.
“You’re my one and only. I got your breakfast,” she said. The diner door opened, and Nancy whispered, “Your supermodel.”
Katie sat down at the table. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” she said, with a killer scowl.
Mike and I were smart enough not to say a word. Nancy came with coffee and took orders.
“I don’t know how you two drink your coffee black,” Katie said, as she stirred cream and sugar in her cup.
I waited until she was done turning her coffee into some sort of latte. “I had a visitor last night after you left. Dee Dee.”
“What? No way!” That woke her up.
“Surprised me in the alley. Wants to hire us to find Kenzie’s killer. They were friends and she is scared and devastated by the murder.”
“Stan told her he hired you to investigate the blackmail?” Mike asked.
“Yep.”
He furrowed his brow and stared off in the distance. A familiar sign to me that his detective brain had latched on to an idea and shifted into high gear.
“Can’t believe I missed her.” Katie sat back in the chair and crossed her arms. “Then what?”
“She stayed for thirty minutes. We talked, I called her a cab, she left.”
“Seriously? You are going to make me beg? I’m already in a crap mood because of a lack of sleep.”
“You drove off and there she was. Hiding in the shadows. Startled me, too. If I had a gun on me, I might have shot her.”
“She didn’t want anyone to see her?” Katie fumbled in her purse for her notepad and pen.
“Right. Thinks she could be in danger and definitely didn’t want Stan to know she wanted to hire me.”
Katie jotted on her pad as she talked. “She wants to make sure Kenzie’s killer is brought to justice and at the same time stay as far from the police as possible. So, she comes to us. If I was a hooker and my friend was killed, I would do the same thing. Did she add anything to what we know?”
Somehow, Katie’s logic made sense. I nodded, and before I could offer my speculation on why Dee Dee came to see me, Mike tapped his knuckles on the table.
“Pre-emptive strike,” he said. “She wants to distance herself from either Stan or Kenzie. My guess is she knows far more than she’s willing to admit and yeah, I’m sure she i
s scared.”
As usual, his instincts were dead on.
Nancy served both Mike and Katie a tall stack of pancakes with sausage links. She could eat as much as the big guy, and I had learned in the short time she was in my employ to not get between her and her food.
“One more thing,” I said. “I ran into Paul Ellison in front of the Harbor Lofts building this morning. He already discovered Stan owns it. A matter of hours before he finds out Stan has an apartment there.”
Katie’s eyes went wide as she chewed.
Mike chuckled. “The master detective at work. Do not underestimate Ellison. He would absolutely devour a homicide case with a juicy celebrity like Shelton caught in the middle. A national headline case for sure, and a nice cap to Paul’s career. He could stick it to the young bucks on his way out.” Mike beamed.
Deep down, I knew he would love to watch the veteran detective score a huge win. I would, too. A victory for the old-school guys.
“We do what we can to help him get the collar,” I said. Mike winked.
Katie was shoveling in pancakes, talking, and writing notes at the same time. Her phone chimed. “There’s the police press release with Kenzie’s name.”
“They are just now releasing her name? Nothing last night?” I asked.
“I don’t think—”
“So then—”
They both said it at the same time. “How did Dee Dee know it was Kenzie who was killed?”
I downed the last swallow of my coffee and grabbed a sausage off her plate. “Question of the day.”
15
After breakfast we reconvened at McNally’s where Mike and Katie prepared to open for the day. I parked myself in my booth and jotted some notes about the case. What began as an investigation into the attempted blackmail of Stan Shelton became a job with the goal of keeping Stan’s neck out of a homicide noose. If the press got one whiff of the possible involvement of the ex-quarterback—albeit a lover of the spotlight—in a murder, they would hound him for the rest of his days.