Sweet Smell of Sucrets

by Renee Pawlish

Her eyes shifted from my face to U.S. International Realty and back to me. “Thinking about leaving the country?”

  “Very funny,” I said, then stared hard at her. “You’re following me.”

  “You’re a suspect; of course we’re keeping tabs on you.” In her pea coat and jeans, and she looked pretty cold.

  I felt my face burning. “I see,” I murmured, then said, “If you’re following me, why didn’t you give me a ride last night?”

  “Huh?” she said, temporarily taken aback.

  So, I thought. She doesn’t know about me chasing Gus and Mick. That meant she hadn’t been keeping tabs on me yesterday. Doubly good, since I’d broken into Noel Farrell’s office.

  “Given the circumstances,” she continued, “wouldn't a good detective watch to see if he was being followed?”

  Now that was just harsh. “And since it’s one degree outside,” I threw back at her, “wouldn’t a detective on surveillance dress a little warmer?”

  “I’m not the only one watching you.” Her brown eyes narrowed. “You really should pay more attention.”

  “I have a lot on my mind,” I said, “like clearing my name.” I crossed my arms. “So what made you break surveillance protocol and reveal yourself?”

  “I need to talk to you,” she said.

  “Are you going to arrest me?” I shivered, and not because of the temperature.

  She pointed at the Starbucks on the corner. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “I must not be a suspect if you’re buying me coffee,” I said.

  “I didn’t say I was buying,” she said as she stalked toward the Starbucks.

  Same old Spillman, I thought. Gruff. Impersonal. But underneath that, a hint of frustration and affection for yours truly. At least she wasn’t carting me off to jail, so that was a good sign.

  We left the cold and entered the Starbucks, endured a long line in an uncomfortable silence, and finally ordered. I love the Eggnog Latte so I had that; I’d worry about my caffeine limit another time. Spillman was a straight-black kind of woman. We took our drinks to a table in the corner, shrugged out of our coats and sat down. My cell phone rang with Bogie’s voice and I glanced at it. It was Willie but, based on the annoyed look on Spillman’s face, I didn’t dare take the call.

  “You wouldn’t be in such a conciliatory mood unless the gunshot residue tests had come back negative,” I said after letting her take a sip of her coffee.

  “Good guess.”

  “It wasn’t a guess. I'm innocent and you know it.”

  She threw me a hard look, but specifically didn’t comment on the GSR tests. “It doesn’t explain how your gun was used to kill Farrell.”

  “Yeah, I’m working on that.”

  “So you’re still a suspect,” she reiterated.

  “You don’t believe I killed him,” I snapped, then leaned in and lowered my voice. “What’s my motive? How could I be two places at once?”

  “There was time. Or you could’ve hired someone.”

  “You think I’d pay someone to off Farrell and then let the hired help use my gun?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, and then it disappeared. “Tell me again what happened that night.”

  So I did, knowing she was trying to find what she might’ve missed, and to see if my story had changed. I was still a suspect, after all.

  “It all started when Noel Farrell called me,” I said, then repeated the entire story one more time. She drank her coffee while I talked, not interrupting me, and when I finished, she twisted her cup around on the table, but remained silent.

  “Why did Farrell contact you in the first place?” she finally asked.

  In all the surprise at being confronted by her, I’d completely forgotten about my conversation with Henri Benoit, so I told her about how Henri had told Farrell about me.

  “Interesting,” she said. “You’d never met Farrell before, maybe when you were visiting the shop?”

  I shook my head. “Never saw the guy.”

  “You really don’t remember anything more after you went to the casino?” she finally asked.

  “It’s all a blur after I got hit on the head.”

  “Let’s assume that whoever beat you up, got you drunk, and let you drive down Golden Gate Canyon was the same person who killed Farrell.”

  “That’s a safe bet.” I decided not to tell her about Gus and Mick because I didn’t know exactly how they were connected to all this, nor did I have a way of proving they were involved.

  “And that same person took your gun at that time and used it to kill Farrell.”

  “Again, I’d bet money on it.”

  My cell phone chirped, signaling I had a text. I was sure it was Willie, wondering why I a hadn’t called her back, but I ignored it again.

  Spillman continued twisting her cup. “Why frame you?”

  “If I knew that, don’t you think I’d tell you?”

  “You’ve held back information before.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. I’d kept information from her on a number of cases, but it was because I didn’t want to implicate Willie or my friends. That was noble, right? And yet, I wasn’t telling her about Gus and Mick. But I had my reasons.

  She leaned forward. “What were you doing at U.S. International Realty?”

  “I was asking about some property for a friend.” The lie sounded to me as smooth as fine whiskey.

  “Ferguson, I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said. “What have you found out?”

  She stood up. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Right,” I said, frustrated. “Because I’m a suspect.”

  “Yep.” She donned her coat, tossed her empty cup in a trash can and walked out, leaving me to contemplate our conversation.

  My cell phone rang again, interrupting my deliberations.

  “Reed, you were going to call me right back,” Willie said. “When you didn’t, I got worried. What happened?”

  “Sorry, I ran into Spillman.”

  “Oh no. Is everything okay?”

  “If still being a suspect is okay, then yeah, I’m dandy.”

  “I’m sorry, hon.”

  I sighed. “It’s okay. The good thing is the GSR tests came back negative.”

  “GSR?”

  “Gunshot residue.”

  “Then why are you still a suspect?”

  “Because they think I could’ve hired someone who could’ve used my gun to kill him.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. But that seems so stupid. Why would you do that?”

  “That’s what I told Spillman. Anyway, what’d you find out?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Trevor hasn’t been to work in a while,” she said.

  “He’s disappeared?”

  “Well, not initially. He was on vacation last week and he was supposed to be back Monday, but he didn’t show up. No one can get hold of him.”

  “So what happened? Was vacation so good that Welch decided to ditch work altogether?”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “How did you find this out?”

  “I pretended to be Trevor’s on-again-off-again girlfriend,” she said, pride in her voice.

  “And that worked?”

  “Reed, when you confide in another woman that you’re having trouble with your man, that can open up all kinds of doors.”

  “Did you need to act like you were his girlfriend?”

  “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

  “Please,” I said, covering the fact that she was right. “I’m way better looking than him.”

  She laughed. “You are, and you don’t have anything to worry about. Anyway, I acted concerned about Trevor and made up a story about how we’d broken up but then he agreed to meet me at the Starbucks down the street this morning and he didn’t show up, so I thought I’d check at his office. The receptioni
st was very sympathetic, and told me about her own boyfriend issues. Reed, if what she said is true, she’s dating a real heel. He doesn’t think about her feelings at all, and he expects her to do whatever –”

  “You found out a lot,” I interrupted before she told me more about the horrible boyfriend. “That’s great detective work.” Sans the extra information, I thought, but wisely didn’t say. “So it appears that Trevor may be on the run.”

  “It looks that way,” she said. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair. “But I need to find out what happened to him.”

  “I don’t know that I can help you with that. Do you need anything else?”

  “What does Trevor do?”

  “I don’t know. It’s something technical, from the looks of the place, but I couldn’t ask that.”

  “Why not? Oh, because Trevor’s supposed girlfriend would know what he does for a living.”

  “Right.” She laughed. “I’m going to grab some lunch and then I have some errands to run. What’s your next move?”

  I thought for a second. “I need to see how Ace is doing. And it might be time to get into Welch’s house and see if I can find anything that might explain his disappearance.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “See you for dinner?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for your help, and good work.”

  “Like I said, I don’t want to visit you behind bars,” she said, then her tone grew lighter. “And you better watch out, I may open up my own detective agency.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” I said.

  She was still laughing when I hung up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After all the coffee I’d consumed, I badly needed a bathroom, so I used the facilities, and then braved the cold again. It was almost eleven as I hurried back to my car. Gray clouds blanketed the sky as I drove out of downtown. I had just gotten on I-25 when my cell phone rang.

  “Reed!” Ace said breathlessly when I answered.

  I didn’t like the edge in his voice. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m following a guy that showed up at Welch’s house.”

  “You’re what?” I nearly shouted. “Ace, I told you not to do anything dangerous.”

  “It’s not dangerous,” he said. “I’ve got a few cars between us and he doesn’t know I’m behind him.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, then paused. Was a Goofball Brother actually making sense?

  “I’ve learned from watching your film noir movies,” he continued.

  I almost dropped the phone. Not only had he remembered that it was “film noir”, not “film now”, as both he and Deuce usually called it, but he was actually tailing properly.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Heading east on I-70. We’re about to pass the National Western Complex.” That was a large venue just east of I-25 that hosted the National Western Stock Show each January.

  “Be careful,” I said, sounding like Willie. “I’m headed in that direction. And tell me what’s going on.” I stayed in the right lane so I could exit onto I-70.

  “I went to Welch’s house like you asked,” Ace began. “I parked down the street, got into the back of my car and bundled up. It wasn’t bad, really. I could’ve used some hot chocolate. But then I would have to use the bathroom, right? And I’m kind of hungry now –”

  “Ace,” I interrupted him. Did he get the art of relating extraneous story details from Willie? “Tell me about the guy you saw.”

  “Oh right. So anyway, I waited and watched the house. About ten minutes after I got there, that guy Welch came home.”

  “He did? Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. I used the binoculars you gave me, so I got a good look at him. He was the guy in the picture you showed me, but he looked sick or something.”

  “How so?”

  “He was kinda hunched over like he had a stomach ache. Or maybe he had a hangover. He looked like I feel when I have a hangover.”

  “Huh,” I said as I exited 25 onto I-70. “Did you see his car?”

  “No, that was weird. I first saw him down the street, near the corner. He was on the other side of the street. That’s when I first noticed him because he just stayed there and I was thinking ‘why is that guy hanging around outside in the cold?’ Because it’s really cold, Reed.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Anyway, that’s when I got the binoculars and I knew it was Welch. He finally crossed the street and walked up to the house and let himself in. After a few minutes, he came back out carrying a big duffle bag. He walked back down the street and around the corner.”

  “And now you’re following him in the car?”

  “No, you told me not to,” he said, indignation in his voice.

  “But you just said you’re following him.”

  “No,” he said slowly, as if I were the dunce in the class. “I told you, I was following a guy. I’m not following Welch.”

  “Then who are you following?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a big dude, reminds me of Arnold.” Arnold Schwarzenegger was Ace’s favorite actor. “He showed up a few minutes after Welch and I think he broke into the house because he went around to the back and I didn’t see him for a while. When he came back out front, I decided to follow him.”

  My heart leaped into my throat. “Ace, that’s probably the guy who beat me up. You don’t want to mess with him.”

  “I’m not messing with him, I’m just following him.”

  His logic would be the death of me. “Are you still on I-70?” I asked.

  “No, we went south on Washington Street and ended up off of 22nd and Downing.”

  I knew the area because it was close to St. Joseph Hospital where Willie worked. Washington Street was coming up, so I exited, driving as fast as I dared to catch up to Ace.

  “Oh, he just turned into a parking lot,” Ace said. “It looks like a doctor’s office. I’m going to park on the street.”

  “Ace, stay in the car.”

  “I’m going to. I got the heater going and it’s nice and warm. Okay, he went inside. He didn’t even see me.”

  “Buddy, you’re asking for trouble,” I chided him.

  “It’s fine. He…uh-oh.”

  “What?” I groaned. I felt completely helpless and blind, and it was driving me crazy.

  “He came back outside and he’s staring right at me.”

  “Leave, now!” I said.

  “Okay.” Fear crept into his voice. “I’m pulling out into traffic now.”

  “Don’t look at him.”

  “I won’t.”

  A long pause ensued. The suspense was killing me.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “I’m looking in the rearview mirror. He watched me as I drove by, then he ran to the parking lot. Reed, what if he saw my license plate?”

  “That’s our second problem. Did he follow you?”

  “No…wait. I see the SUV.”

  I cursed. “You need to lose him, fast.”

  “How?”

  “Go north on Downing.”

  “I am.”

  “Good,” I said. I yanked the wheel and careened onto 33rd Avenue, then whipped a U-turn and drove back to Downing. “Where are you now?”

  “Uh…31st.”

  “Keep going. When you pass Martin Luther King, hit the gas and put some space between your car and his.”

  Another pause and then Deuce said, “I just passed MLK and I’m gunning it.”

  A moment later, Ace’s Kia shot past me. I hit the gas, pulled in behind the car, and glanced in the rearview mirror. The SUV braked hard, nearly hitting me.

  “Is that you?” Ace asked.

  “Yeah. Go to the 7-Eleven on 18th. I’ll meet you there.”

  “What if he follows you?”

  I grimaced. “Then I’ll lose him.” I neglected to say t
hat I was in trouble if Gus recognized my rental car. And since he’d followed me and watched my car the other night, I didn’t see how he wouldn’t. But I had a better chance of losing him than Ace did. Plus, it was my job, not Ace’s.

  Ace hung up and I tossed the phone on the passenger seat, then sped up and suddenly turned onto Marion Street. Gus stayed with me and I gritted my teeth as I passed a small industrial complex. I took a hard right into a wide alley and skidded around a moving truck that was headed toward me. A horn blared as the truck’s front end barely missed the rear of the Subaru. I heard a loud crash and looked in the rearview mirror. The truck was blocking the alley, but on the other side, I saw the SUV. It had rammed into the front end of the truck.

  “Ha ha!” I shouted, then pumped my fist in the air.

  I got back onto the next street and sped off. But my elation didn’t last long. I soon realized that Gus was aware not only of me, but now Ace. And I’d have to figure out how to keep Gus from finding Ace. Could things get any worse?

  It turned out they could.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I met Ace at the 7-Eleven and followed him home. After that, I didn’t want him driving his car in case Gus tried to track him down from the Kia’s license plate, so I had Ace put his car in the garage, retrieved my binoculars and blankets and took them upstairs to my condo. Then I took him to lunch. After that we rented a vehicle for him. It turns out a short-bed truck was a cheap option so I chose that, and Ace was excited to drive it instead of his car. His Kia was relatively new, the result of his beat-up Subaru being totaled when the garage we shared was burned down. When it came time to get a new car, he’d wanted a 4-Runner like I had but insurance wouldn’t pay for it. He’d settled for the Kia, but he hadn’t been happy. When we left the rental agency, he giggled as he took the truck keys, and he promised to keep his eye out for Gus.

  I debated whether to rent a new vehicle for myself, but unless Gus had someone like a Cal who could look up car rental records, I didn’t see how he could trace the Subaru back to me.

  By the time I got home, I had a splitting headache, my face hurt and I was in a bad mood. Willie was still gone, so I popped Sweet Smell of Success into the DVD player and lay back on the couch and closed my eyes. As Tony Curtis walked the streets of New York City, I fell asleep.