When I got back home, I tossed Headbutt a Bully Stick, then phoned Splatz, my favorite biohazard cleanup company. They’d be at my house by first light.
Flat broke or not, I have limits. I put ’em down. Somebody else cleans ’em up. Besides, with my frequent flyer discount points, I might qualify for a BOGO. In my line of work, messes like this happen more often than you’d think.
Mrs. Nussbaum must have slept through the commotion. Thank God. That’s all I needed. One call from Nosey Nonnie and the local HOA vigilantes would drive me out of the neighborhood with torches and pitchforks.
I took a long hot shower, cleaned out the cuts on my hand, then slapped a few Band-Aids back on. Good as new. After throwing my clothes in the washer, I wiped down my leather duster, feeling the outline of Veronica’s black book in the breast pocket. I pulled it out. Just to be safe, it was going to spend the night under my pillow.
I let Headbutt out to do his business and watched to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid to wake up Mrs. Nussbaum. When he trotted back inside, I gave him a bedtime biscuit. I pulled out an old sheet and covered Kulu’s cage. I swear, for a moment, a look of relief crossed her tiny beaked face. With everything that had happened tonight, I was amazed that she hadn’t died of a heart attack.
“Goodnight, Kulu,” I whispered.
I was halfway to my bedroom, when a tiny voice squawked, “Goodnight, Harry.”
At 7 a.m. a chorus of barks, growls, screeches and shrieks awakened me. Jimmy and the crew from Splatz had arrived. He strolled through my kitchen and living room, checking boxes on his clipboard, raising his brows and uttering an occasional grunt. Between sips of my first cup of coffee, I worked up the guts to ask him what this mess was going to cost me.
He laughed like a hyena. “More than you make in a year.”
I reminded him how much business I send his way, so he agreed that we’d be square if I’d write him a five-star review on Yelp and appear in a Splatz TV commercial. Done and done. He had me over the proverbial barrel. What choice did I have?
I looked at my watch. I had to meet Cap at twelve. “Can you be finished by eleven-thirty?”
“You’re shitting me.” Jimmy sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “Even with industrial fans and separate crews for cleaning, carpentry and painting, we’re talking two p.m. Earliest.”
A quiet rap on my back door interrupted the conversation. Mrs. Nussbaum stood on my porch, peeking through the curtains.
I opened the door but blocked her line of sight by standing on the threshold.
“Who dose mens?” she asked, craning her neck to see past me and into the house.
“Plumbers.”
She stooped and shoved her head below my outstretched arm. “Why big plastic sheet hanging—”
“There’s shit and pee everywhere, Mrs. N. Gotta run, now. Bye-bye.” I slammed the door and exhaled slowly. That was close. Then it occurred to me that even though I could put Headbutt outside while the crew worked, Kulu wouldn’t be able to handle the fumes from the cleaning solutions.
I threw open the door and yelled, “Mrs. Nussbaum? Could I leave my bird at your house today? Just for a couple of hours? The fumes could hurt her lungs.”
Mrs. Nussbaum frowned. “Why my house? Mens just fixing toilet.”
“All that shit and pee? And those nasty chemicals? Burn her feathers right off.”
“Bah!” Nosy Nonnie snarled. “Fine. I take bird. But if it bite, I cook it.”
I grabbed Kulu’s cage, reinforced the no biting rule, and raced outside. “Thanks. I owe you one, Mrs. Nussbaum.”
Before she could reply, I was halfway back to the porch. No take backs, I thought, as I dove through the door, slamming it closed behind me.
Jimmy chuckled. “So, now we’re plumbers?”
“Damn straight. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
I showered and dressed for my meeting with Cap. Then, I put Headbutt outside before I left, scolding him, and begging him to cut Mrs. N. some slack today. If not for her sake, then for mine. I don’t think he gave a rat’s ass. He loved to push her buttons. We have a lot in common, Headbutt and I.
On my way out the door, I hesitated before tucking Veronica’s book back inside my duster. It was evidence that needed to be turned over. So why was I wavering?
As I drove to the 51st, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been there since Harry’s death. That had only been a day and a half ago. But it seemed like a lifetime. Cap’s watchdog, Miriam, manned her post as usual but with an uncharacteristic lack of zeal. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she’d been crying.
“I’m sorry about Harry, Ms. Nighthawk. I know you were close. Such a good man.”
Another awkward condolence. After a quick nod, I glanced at Cap’s door. “We have a noon meeting.”
Miriam buzzed Cap and then ushered me into his office. She flashed a faint smile, as if rewarding me for my compliance with her rules. Totally unintended on my part. I wasn’t in the mood to play.
When Miriam closed the door behind her, Cap stood, motioning toward his guest chairs. “Have a seat, please.” His eyes swept to my bandaged hand. “How you doing?”
“Ready, willing and able.”
His gaze remained fixed on my hand. Apparently, the ride in had reopened my cuts. Fresh blood seeped out from beneath the Band-Aids. “What happened there?”
“It’s nothing. I just broke a glass.”
Cap nodded. “Harry’s brother, Ralph, is on his way into town. He’ll be making Harry’s arrangements.” Cap looked away and cleared his throat. “He hemmed and hawed about the bird, but eventually agreed to take it. I’ll have a squad car drive him to your house this afternoon to pick it up.”
Screw Ralph.
Cap perched on the corner of his desk. “I wanted to thank you for your help on the Henry case. Harry told me how much he enjoyed working with you. But now that you’ve raised Ms. Henry and exhausted the paranormal aspect of the investigation, your work is finished.”
“Excuse me?”
“You did what Harry needed you to do. You raised Veronica and extracted what little information she could provide. End of story—”
“But—”
“I know you helped Harry investigate beyond that. And yes, I allowed it. But that’s not what you’re contracted to do. Harry’s dead. His murder could be connected to this case. You could get hurt, or worse. I’m sorry, but I won’t accept the responsibility of your further involvement. You’re off the case.”
“My involvement produced information we would never had gotten otherwise. Harry was murdered because we were getting too close to the truth. Don’t cut me out now.”
“You’re not to touch the Henry case, or Harry’s murder. Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“You’re still on retainer for paranormal investigations. I’ll be in touch.”
So many thoughts and emotions surged through me at once. Even the brain bitch was speechless.
Cap stood up and walked me to the door. “The DA’s office called this morning, requesting Harry’s file on the Henry murder. You two never found the book Ms. Henry mentioned, did you?”
Harry’s warning played in my head. Trusting the wrong person could get me killed.
“No, sir,” I said, without batting an eye. “We never did.”
I left Cap’s office with Veronica’s leather book still tucked inside my duster.
Little Allie fumed. “You should have given it to him.”
I’d have laid odds that Cap’s name wasn’t in those pages, but that’s where my certainty stopped. There were too many powerful people with too much to lose. They’d stop at nothing to destroy that book, if they knew of its existence.
And at least one of them knew. At least one of them had me in their sights, drugging my dog, leaving me dead flounders and flowers, and even orchestrating my own personal biter attack. (Rather insulting, actually, to think I couldn’t handle a single corpsi
cle.) And then there was Harry. Dead Harry, who’d apparently solved the case and was murdered before he could prove it.
Like hell I’m off the case, I thought. I slammed through the doors of the 51st and into the midday sun.
Fuck ‘em all, Harry. I’m going to finish what we started.
The meeting with Cap had been short and sweet. Jimmy and the Splatz crew needed more time with my house, so I decided to stop into The Blue Note for lunch. Dallas eyed the bloody Band-Aids on my hand.
“How ’bout a burger and fries?” I said, settling onto a bar stool.
“Let’s have a look at that hand.” He pulled the first aid kit out from beneath the bar. Slipping on his glasses, he inspected my hand by the light of the old banker’s lamp next to the cash register.
“You’ll live,” he said, dressing the wounds and rewrapping my entire hand. “Keep it clean and dry. And for God’s sake, let the damn thing heal.”
He walked to the sink and washed his hands.
“What time do you want me tonight?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I need money.”
“You can’t wash glasses, carry food or pour drinks. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll work one-handed.”
“How you going to get back and forth?”
“Uber.” Big fat liar.
He shook his head and tossed my burger on the grill. “Suit yourself. Stubborn ass.”
I let that slide. He fixes a mean burger. And I was starved. Besides, he was right.
I tooled back into my driveway at 2 p.m. on the nose, anxious to see the house. Jimmy and his gang were packing up their gear. He walked me through the interior, letting me inspect their work. Good as new. Even better. They saved me the trouble of repainting the living room that hadn’t been painted in twenty years, give or take.
I followed him out to his truck and thanked him for finishing the job so quickly.
“No problem, Nighthawk.” He reached into his glovebox and handed me an official Splatz air freshener for the car I didn’t own. “Only my A-list clients get one of these. I’ll be in touch about those TV spots.”
As the Splatz crew backed out of the driveway, a squad car pulled up along the curb. A guy who looked a lot like Harry heaved himself out of the back seat. Ralph Delk had come for Kulu. It made sense, giving him the bird. I needed another pet like I needed a hole in the head. Ralph even walked like Harry as he trudged across the yard.
“You must be Nighthawk,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Harry’s brother, Ralph. I understand he had some sort of bird.”
After offering my condolences for the loss of his brother, I asked him to hang loose a minute while I ran next door to rescue Kulu from Mrs. Nussbaum.
She opened the door before I even reached her porch and thrust Kulu’s cage at me. “Take. Is nasty, nasty bird.”
“Crazy bitch! Crazy bitch!” Kulu screeched, and ricocheted off the bars of her cage like a feathered pinball.
Nonnie sneered. “Bah! Meshuge farshtunken foygl. Crazy, stinky bird! No bring back,” she said, slamming her door in my face.
I carried Kulu across the lawn, wondering how that scene had played to Ralph.
“Don’t mind my neighbor,” I said, handing him the cage. “She’s not much of an animal lover.”
“Me neither.” He frowned at Kulu through the bars like she was an alien life form. “But that’s not your problem. Right, Ms. Nighthawk? C’mon, bird,” he said, plodding back toward the cruiser.
“Wait. Don’t you want her food or Harry’s bird book?”
“Whatever.” He shrugged and glared at Kulu. “Maybe I’ll set you free, huh? Let you fly away so you can play with the other birds.”
In the dead of winter?
I jogged to the curb and wrenched the cage from his hand.
“Ralph, Kulu’s a tropical bird. Why don’t I just hang onto her?” I started back to the house and called over my shoulder, “Thanks for stopping by. See you at the service.”
“Suit yourself,” he mumbled, trundling himself back into the cruiser.
I lifted Kulu’s cage and peered through its bars. “No offense, bird, but your Uncle Ralph’s a real asshat.”
“Ralph’s an asshat,” she said, shaking her flaming-red tail feathers. “Big ol’ asshat.”
As God is my witness, I heard Harry laugh. And just like that, I knew I’d made the right decision. Kulu was home to stay.
21
Jesus Wept
Less than three hours later, I showed up for my shift at The Blue Note. Dallas, focused on my hand, wanted to plant me at the cash register, i.e., a night with no tips. After a profanity-laced argument, he agreed that I could serve customers if I wore a nitrile glove over my bandages. A wasted squabble, really. The typical Saturday night crowd, mostly Coke-suckers and darters, were notoriously bad tippers. I was hoping Tiffany would drop in. One of us needed to apologize to the other. I had a feeling it was me. But the night wore on with no sign of the six-foot drama queen, and I didn’t give her further thought until a call came in around ten o’clock.
“For you,” Dallas said, as I bustled out of the kitchen with an order of wings.
He handed me the phone, I handed him my tray and wondered who the hell would call me there.
“Miss Allie Nighthawk?”
“Yes?”
“This is Nurse Decker calling from the emergency department of Christ Hospital. A patient named Tiffany Swarovski asked that we contact you at this number. Your presence is urgently requested.”
My stomach lurched. “Is… Is she okay?”
“The doctor will provide more details when you arrive.”
I slumped onto a barstool. “Is she…alive?”
A somber-looking Dallas waited at my elbow, still holding the tray of wings.
“Yes, she is alive. But we do ask that you arrive as quickly and safely as possible.”
“Of course,” I said, disconnecting the call.
Dallas steadied himself at the bar. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Tiffany. She’s in the ER at Christ Hospital, and she’s asking for me.” I grabbed my gear, hurtled out from behind the bar and broke for the door.
Dallas called after me. “Is she sick? Hurt…or what?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The streets were deserted at that hour of the night. I could make the normally fifteen-minute drive to Clifton in ten if I went full throttle. Once I hit fifth gear, I stayed there. She’s alive, I told myself as the bitter wind buffeted my face. If she were dead, she couldn’t have asked them to call you.
I flew up Auburn Hill and into the parking garage, then followed the signs to the ER. Even late at night, the waiting room was packed. I marched inside, past the registration clerk, and through the double doors to the treatment area.
A weathered-looking nurse sat by the window, reading a chart. “May I help you?” she asked, peering over a pair of half-moon cheaters.
“I’m here for Tiffany Swarovski.”
“Are you her next of kin?”
“Ah…sure.”
The nurse frowned. “Only next of kin—”
“You called me, lady. Check it out. Nighthawk. Allie Nighthawk. Take me to her or I’ll—”
“The doctor is with Ms. Sworovski now. We’ll call you back when he’s ready to meet with you. And keep your voice down, please. This is a hospital.”
I shot her the Allie eye, but lowered my voice. “What happened to Tiffany?”
“The doctor will fill you in when he sees you.”
I leaned against the corner of the nurse’s station and stared down the hallway, scrutinizing the treatment bays, hoping to pick up Tiffany’s vibe. Two of Cincinnati’s finest milled around the last treatment bay in the row. The officers whispered among themselves and paced, arms folded, as if they were waiting to see whoever was inside. Feet shuffled back and forth behind the drawn privacy curtain.
Vibes or no vibes, t
he odds were in my favor that I’d found Tiffany.
I slipped around the corner of the nurse’s station and made a beeline to the furthest treatment bay.
“Evening, officers,” I said, pointing to the curtain. “Is Tiffany Sworovski in there?”
The older of the two officers cocked his eye. “And you would be?”
“Allie Nighthawk. I worked with Harry Delk, out of the 51st. Maybe you knew him?”
The cop’s eyes flashed with instant recognition, followed by sorrow. “I sure did. Good man, Harry. Sorry for your loss.” He cleared his throat and nodded at the curtain. “Yeah. That’s Ms. Swarovski.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was stabbed and left for dead. Somebody called an ambulance an hour — maybe an hour and a half ago.”
“Did she see who attacked her?”
“She saw the guy, but didn’t recognize him.”
“How bad is she?”
The curtain opened and the ER doc stepped out.
“Officers and…” he referred to his chart, “Ms. Nighthawk, I presume?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“Ms. Swarovski is in critical condition. She sustained sharp force trauma to her neck and chest, resulting in significant blood loss and shock. A CT and angiography of her neck revealed a right vertebral artery injury. She’s headed into surgery.”
Oh, God. No, no, no. “Will she… Is she…going to make it?”
He flashed a weary smile. “She’s in good hands. That’s the best I can say. Let the surgeons work their magic. She’s sedated now, but she asked for you. She told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘They’re after the book.’ Whatever that means. You can sit with her if you like, until the orderly arrives.” He turned to the officers. “Any other questions?”
“No, thanks. We got what we need,” the old cop answered.
Life Among the Tombstones Page 13