Meow If It's Murder (Nick and Nora Mysteries)

by T. C. LoTempio

“It is—under usual circumstances.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “And these are unusual?”

  He blew out a breath. “Look, I’m going to have to ask you to trust law enforcement here, Nora. There are certain things I can’t tell you.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “That’s not very fair, now is it? You want to know all my information, my sources, but you won’t tell me jack?”

  “All I can say is you’re treading on sensitive ground and I suggest—strongly suggest—you back off. Before something happens.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Heck no. It’s a warning. I can appreciate your zeal, and what you’ve accomplished so far. But please, for your own good, and your own safety—promise me you’ll drop it.”

  “Drop what?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You know what. Now I’m asking you nicely, as someone who likes you—how did you find out about Karl Goring?”

  I started. “Karl Goring? I’m sorry, but—”

  “I know you’ve inquired about him,” he said. “That’s why I’m asking you nicely.”

  I hesitated, then crossed over to the knife drawer. I slipped out the photo of Adrienne and Patti and the knife, and then walked over and handed the envelope with the other two photos to him. He took it, opened it, stared at the contents, then wordlessly slipped the envelope into the inner pocket of his expensive jacket.

  “I’d ask where you got that, but I’ve got a feeling I already know. Don’t confirm it!” He held his hand up as I opened my mouth to speak. “It’s better if I don’t know. If I do, I might have to arrest you for withholding evidence in a murder investigation, and neither of us would like that very much.” He patted his breast pocket. “Too much tedious paperwork.”

  I cut him an eye roll—a big one. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He sighed. “I wish I were. So—is that all of it?”

  I put my hands behind my back, crossed all my fingers. “Yes. That’s all of it.”

  He studied me a moment. “Now why don’t I believe you?”

  “You have some nerve,” I burst out. “You come into my shop and accuse me of meddling, of confiscating evidence—”

  “Which you did.” His gaze narrowed. “How did you get hold of this anyway?”

  I merely shrugged. I could hardly say Nick had retrieved the evidence, although I wondered just how he’d react if I did. Judging from his demeanor thus far, he’d probably have me committed.

  He raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Okay.” Then he reached across, lightly grazed my cheek with the back of his hand. “Try not to hate me too much, Nora. It’s just that these photos shouldn’t be floating around.”

  I pounced on his statement like a cat on a mouse. “Why? Do they have something to do with Patti’s murder? Surely you’re not suggesting she was killed over a few photos?”

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal any information concerning these photos, or the investigation into Patti’s death. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you it’s not safe.”

  “Why?” I was having a hard time concentrating due to the fact his skin felt so warm against mine. “Why isn’t it safe? Can’t you at least tell me that?”

  He withdrew his hand and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Believe me when I say I’m looking out for you. After all, how can we ever go on that date if you’re behind bars—or worse?”

  Worse? I licked at my lips, forcing myself not to obsess on the fact he’d referred to our missed dinner as a date. I picked up a dish towel from a nearby rack and twirled it in my hand. “Maybe if I knew just what was at stake here, I’d be more inclined to forgive you. And cooperate.”

  He paused, and for a minute I thought he might actually break down and spill his guts, but then his expression hardened, and he shook his head.

  “Sorry. It’s really better for you if you don’t know. Look, I can’t arrest you—yet. But if that’s what it takes to keep you safe, I will. I’ll be watching you, so keep your nose clean, okay, Nora?”

  He turned and walked to the door. As he turned the knob, I called out, “So what’s in it for me? What’s my incentive to drop all this? Besides a dinner date with you, that is.”

  He gave me a swift glance over his shoulder. “Staying alive,” he said, and walked out the door.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Boy, that guy’s got nerve!”

  I waited until the door had closed behind Daniel before I threw the dishrag I’d been holding to the floor and stamped on it. A childish action, to be sure, but it made me feel much better. Nick crawled out from under the table the moment the door closed. He leaped over the towel and hopped up on the counter, his golden eyes flashing sparks. I reached out and gave him a swift pat on the head.

  “Sorry, Nick. He just makes me so mad!”

  I stamped my foot again, harder this time. Nick sat motionless, staring at me. His whiskers twitched, and then he arched his back in a taut stretch, opened his mouth in a large yawn, and jumped back onto the floor with a grunt.

  I walked over to the drawer and removed the few photos I’d held back from Daniel. “He really seemed pissed about these photos, didn’t he?” I tapped the envelope against my chin. “I’d sure like to know how he found out I was asking about Karl Goring. How does he get all this information anyway? He always seems to be a heck of a lot more informed than our usual Cruz police force, I can tell you that.”

  I remembered back in Chicago, most of the detectives used NCIC—the National Crime Information Center—as a source of information. It was pretty reliable, but even that had errors at times. I thought back to the information he’d gotten on Adrienne Sloane—information that seemed pretty hard to pinpoint. I knew prison records were made public, but the information one could gather online was sketchy and detailed reports cost money—money I was relatively certain wasn’t in the Cruz police budget. No, information like that usually came from the inside, but most prison guards and wardens were canny with info, unless they were on the take, or there was something in it for them, or . . .

  I opened the drawer where I’d put the tiles Nick had been playing with the other day and pulled them out. They spelled FIB, all right, but if you switched two letters . . .

  “FBI.” I cocked a brow at Nick, who had darted his long pink tongue all over his face and was now concentrating on his right paw. “People in prisons don’t like to spill stuff unless there’s something in it for them, or unless they’re talking to a Fed. What do you think, Nick? Do you think the FBI is somehow involved in this? That Detective Daniel has an ‘in’ with someone there?”

  Nick raised his golden gaze to meet mine, and then let out a shrill howl.

  I frowned as I recalled Nick’s choice of Scrabble letters. One set spelled either FIB or FBI. The other was GOVT, an abbreviation for government. The FBI was a branch of the government.

  The first time I’d caught Nick with the FBI letters had been right after I’d met Daniel. Had Nick sensed something about the detective? After all, what did I really know about him? I only had his word he was substituting for O’Halleran—I’d never checked with anyone else down at headquarters. Even the night before, I’d been sequestered until he came to the interrogation room. Could it even be possible?

  I gave the cat a sharp glance, but right now Nick wasn’t interested in me; it was grooming time. He licked his left paw and made a pass across his whiskers, his cheekbones, twice over his eyes, once over the back of his head before sticking his left leg straight up in the air and cleaning his manhood.

  “Crap, Nick. What were you trying to tell me? That Corleone doesn’t have to have an informant at the FBI, because he is the FBI?”

  Nick paused in his ablutions. “Ew-owr.” He bleated, and then returned to his grooming.

  Well, it would explain a lot. How he had the clout to get information not av
ailable for public consumption—that, for all intents and purposes, has been buried—to anyone except FBI or CIA. Chantal said the auras on those pictures were indicative of a cover-up—what if she was right? What if Adrienne Sloane’s death was part of some cover-up—something that included Patti Simmons and Karl Goring?

  I flopped into a chair, pushed my hand through my hair. “Whatever it is has to be big for the FBI to be involved, and we’re talking really big. Huge. Gigundo. What would be huge enough to warrant a massive cover-up and the FBI’s involvement?”

  I got up, crossed over to my laptop, opened it, and started typing. Nick, done for the moment with his grooming, hopped up on the chair next to me. A couple of seconds later, the FBI website appeared on my screen. I read the “Breaking News,” my teeth jamming into my bottom lip when I spotted an item about a newly sentenced mob boss.

  “Mobsters. I’m back to the damn mob after all. Sheesh—I can’t get away from ’em.”

  Nick sat back on his haunches, began grooming his other side.

  I continued to stare at the FBI’s website. “Best reason I can think of for a cover-up is someone turning state’s evidence. Ratting on the big boys.” I could feel the beginnings of a monster headache start to form, and I absently rubbed at my temple. “It’s possible. I’ve seen it before. She—Adrienne—might have been incarcerated on some charge, and the Feds approached her with a deal—her freedom for info on her boss. Depending on who and how powerful the mobster was, it could be a viable reason for faking her death. She might have needed to establish a whole new identity.”

  I got up, walked over to the counter where I’d dropped the envelope, and brought it back to the table. I pulled out the one of Patti and Adrienne/Alicia and held it up.

  “The sisters were estranged for years. Adrienne could have gotten in with bad company, maybe even one of the mob heads. He sells her out to protect his own skin, but the Feds approach her with a deal in prison, offer her a shot at an entirely new life if she rolls over. She’s jaded now—got no loyalty or love left in her—so she takes the deal and for all intents and purposes Adrienne is dead. The Feds get her testimony, put the mobster away, and Adrienne starts life all over as Alicia Samuels—either ironically or by design, in the company her brother-in-law owns.”

  I pulled a pad in front of me. Feds always recommended that people in WPP use their same first name, or else choose first and last names that start with their initials—makes the transition easier. I wrote down:

  Adrienne Sloane

  Alicia Samuels

  A and S. Bingo.

  Nick hopped up on the table, walked over, peered over my shoulder, and a shrill howl emitted from his throat.

  “You’re right, Nick. There’s still a lot unexplained. For one, how does Patti figure in all this? How far back did she and Adrienne go, and how tight were they? And let’s not forget Karl Goring, or how he might tie into all this. Chantal said they were all connected, so maybe—maybe Patti was in the mob, too? As for Goring—well, I’ve got no clue there. What I need is some link, something that will tie the three of them together.”

  Nick laid his paw on my shoulder, butted his head against my chin.

  Well, it was clear what I needed to do. I needed another look-see into Alicia Samuels’s office. After all, she’d gotten careless and left Lola Grainger’s cell number on her desk—maybe there was something else that would shed some light left behind. And quite frankly, I wouldn’t have minded a one-on-one with Kevin Grainger, either. I probably should go to Daniel, but after that little lecture I doubt he’d be pleased at my interference. However, if I could get proof Adrienne was alive, and a lead on who killed Patti . . .

  “KMG, here I come,” I murmured. I reached for my cell and punched in a number, while Nick watched, eyes slitted. “Only this time, I won’t need an appointment. Hey, Chantal! Does your brother still have his old bicycle?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Chantal delivered the bicycle just as I was ushering my last lunch patron out the door. She wheeled it into the back room and bestowed a dubious glance my way.

  “Here it is, chérie. Remy oiled the wheels—he has not used it in years. He said you could keep it, if you want.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, but thanks.”

  She continued to give me her version of the “evil eye” after I locked the door, took off my apron, and loaded all the lunch crowd dishes into the dishwasher. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the kitchen doorjamb.

  “So—you are tired of driving your SUV around? You feel riding a bike will be better exercise?”

  “Sorta kinda.”

  “Or,” she said shrewdly, “you are planning on channeling Jessica Fletcher, and thus needed a similar mode of transportation?”

  I pulled my hair into a ponytail and shoved it under an NCIS cap that I’d gotten on eBay. Gotta love that Mark Harmon. “Sorta kinda.”

  I could tell my friend was struggling hard to keep her temper. “This has something to do with this investigation you are involved in, right, chérie? The dangerous mission? Do not say ‘sorta kinda’ please or I will be forced to slap you.”

  I pulled an old SF Giants jacket over my T-shirt and dark denim jeans. “Could be.”

  Chantal rolled her eyes and let out an impatient sigh. “For heaven’s sake, Nora, please tell me you are not doing anything foolish—like confronting a suspected killer.”

  I zipped up the jacket and went over, patted my friend’s hand. “You know me better than that. I never did stuff like that when I was paid to do it. Well, maybe only occasionally.”

  “Sure.” She snorted. “I know how you can get when you are faced with a puzzle. You have a tendency to take chances.”

  “Me? A risk taker? Good old dependable me?” I shot her a look of mock disdain. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “I was happy when you decided to take over your mama’s store, and do you know why?”

  I beamed at her. “Because I moved back to Cruz, and we could see each other regularly again?”

  “That, and the fact that you would no longer be out prowling the streets of Chicago, helping to put the bad guys away. You had some pretty close calls you never told anyone about.”

  “That I did, but how did you—”

  She tapped her temple. “I am not psychic for nothing. I know you laugh at it, but it is nothing to laugh at. My predictions—my visions—have a ninety-seven percent success rate.”

  “I do believe in intuition,” I told her. “What I don’t believe in is anyone’s ability to predict the future—the exact future. I’m more than willing to believe that you get intuitive glimpses into certain events. Heck, I might have experienced some of that myself. Plus . . .” My face split into a big grin. “I may be the owner of the world’s first psychic cat.”

  Her breath exploded in a long, drawn-out sigh. “Well, it is good you are open-minded in that respect, at least. Please trust what I say to you. That cloud is still around you—if anything, it is thicker. My psy—my intuition—is telling me that you are walking headlong into danger. That you are putting your very life in jeopardy.”

  I took both my friend’s hands in mine. “I’ll be careful, and I’m not about to do anything foolish, Chantal. But if something unforeseen should happen—you’d take care of Nick for me, right?”

  Nick’s head popped out from underneath the table. “Oooowwwwrrrr,” he howled.

  Chantal smiled. “See, Nicky will accept no substitutes. He wants you to get your tail back here in one piece.”

  I picked him up and buried my nose in his ruff. “Nothing’s going to happen,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in one piece before you know it. I wouldn’t leave you to spend the rest of your nine lives as a cat jewelry model.”

  I set him down, and Nick turned around twice. “E-yow!” he cried.


  * * *

  I was a bit out of practice, so it took me a good forty-five minutes, but I cycled all the way from Hot Bread to the other end of town and the KMG building, a feat I could have accomplished in fifteen minutes with the SUV—but then I might have had a hard time getting through the gate. I’d remembered the engineer on my previous visit sailing through the entrance without having to flash a badge—I was hoping for the same sort of luck now. I’d worry about how I’d actually get into the building once I’d passed the first hurdle.

  It seemed luck was on my side as I made the turn onto KMG property. There was a large delivery truck at the guard shack, and it seemed the guard on duty was occupied checking out the driver’s paperwork. Of course, that didn’t mean they couldn’t look up and see me, or catch me on their video cameras. Squaring my shoulders, I pulled my cap down low over my eyes and pulled my Giants jacket collar up around my neck.

  Then I sailed straight through the entrance onto the back parking lot.

  One hurdle down—several more to go.

  I pedaled all the way to the back of the lot and found a small bicycle rack. Apparently the engineer wasn’t the only one who rode his bike—there were four others chained there. I propped mine in the last slot, and then stood, debating my next move. It was to get inside obviously, but without a badge, that posed a definite problem. I imagined I could have avoided all this subterfuge had I just called for an appointment, but to be honest, with Patti gone, I had no idea who my new contact should be, nor any desire to get shuffled around for a half hour while people attempted to find out. I’ve always found the personal approach infinitely more satisfying—it usually produces immediate, if not effective, results.

  The rear door opened and I saw two suited figures emerge. I sucked in my breath as the first one turned and I caught a good view of him full face—Daniel. Swell. His companion was tall—I guessed around six feet, with a good build and reddish hair that seemed in need of a decent haircut. The suit he wore hung on his frame, as if it were two sizes too big. I couldn’t tell much else, because the sunglasses he wore concealed much of his face. They walked over to the far wall, and I recognized Daniel’s Acura, dent and all. The two got into it and then drove off. I heaved a sigh of relief. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about running into him here.