I smiled at him.
“What’s your name?” I politely asked.
“You really wanna know, white bread?”
White bread…what ever happened to originality?
“Just being neighborly,” I said.
“It’s AK Jerome,” he said. “AK, as in Ass Kicker, bitch.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll be happy to tell my brother, Blood, you said hello, AK Ass Kicker, bitch.”
He was a dark-skinned young man, but you could definitely see his face turn a shade of pale. He closed his jacket and averted his eyes so that instead of staring at me, he was looking down at his sneakers.
I came around the front of the 4Runner and gently took Val’s hand. We started up the concrete steps on the way to the headquarters front doors.
“I’ll never understand your unending desire to piss people off,” she said, a little under her breath.
“It’s my hobby,” I said happily. “Still miss me?”
“Hobby like that can get you killed around here,” she said.
“Not me,” I said. “I’ve got Blood on my team.”
We entered the headquarters. I approached the guard sergeant manning the desk behind a bullet-proof glass window with a little round hole cut out of it at the bottom.
“Aweeee Jesus H,” he said as he spotted me. “Look what the cat just dragged in.”
“Bradly,” I said. “Sorry, but I didn’t have time to stop for donuts. Will you ever forgive me?”
“You still got that wise ass tongue of yours, Marconi. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Bradly was a fixture of the APD. Way beyond retirement age, he was also way out of shape, which relegated him to permanent desk duty. At present, he was the longest standing member of the APD next to Detective Miller. Another way-beyond-retirement aged cop who refused to pack it in, collect the pension, make the move to South Carolina or Sarasota. But then, he was a good cop. I might go so far as to say great. His on-the-job experience spoke for itself. Which is precisely why it baffled me that he would begin to question Val, of all people.
“Miller in today, Brad?” I asked.
He put his bifocal reading glasses on, gave Val a glance, then gave me one too. He then removed the glasses, allowed them to hang down against his barrel chest by a thin leather lanyard, and sat back in his chair.
“Would you believe me if I told you the old man’s expecting you?”
I cleared my throat.
“And you’re young?” I said.
“Hey,” he said, “the old man is nine months older than me. That’s saying somethin’.”
“Oh, forgive me for even mentioning it.”
He reached out, hit the buzzer for the metal door to the right of the window. The door opened.
“You’re no spring chicken yourself, Marconi,” Brad said, handing me two visitor’s badges through the little window hole.
“Cluck, cluck,” I said with a grin and went for the door.
Val and I made the walk along the narrow, brightly lit, white-painted concrete block corridor on our way to Miller’s office. When we arrived at his door, I knocked. Since the Venetian blind was closed and blocking the glass plate embedded into the door, he barked, “Yah, who is it?”
“Old pal of yours,” I said.
“That didn’t take long,” he said. “Come on in.”
I opened the door and placed one foot inside, my hand still gripping the opener.
“Brought a friend, Nick,” I announced.
“Let me guess,” he said, sitting back in his swivel chair. “You and Val are suddenly speaking again.”
“How’d you know?”
“What day is it today?” he asked.
“It’s Wednesday,” I responded.
“It’s anything can happen day,” he said. “That means what was impossible just yesterday is now possible. Val needs your help, and you two are about to be like a couple of peas again. You can thank me later.”
“What are you, a matchmaker?” I said.
“No, I’m a cop. And a bigshot at that. I put bad guys and gals behind bars.”
“In that case, we’ll be happy to take a few minutes of your time.”
I opened the door wide, and Val stepped inside.
Chapter Four
Miller was a tall guy.
Taller than me, anyway, which wasn’t all that unusual considering my ethnicity. Italians generally weren’t known for their height. He was also in shape, and from what I’d heard, ran five miles per day and still ran at least one marathon per year. Not bad for a guy who would never see his fifties again. Today, he was wearing a blue button-down shirt with a black tie that was impeccably tied. He was so clean shaven that his cheeks appeared concave, and his full head of hair was buzzed cut and gray-white. Even though he was seated at his desk, he wore a shoulder holster, and inside the holster a 9mm semi-automatic service sidearm was stored. It looked good on him, like he’d be naked somehow without it.
“Take a seat,” he said. Then, nodding at Val. “Good to see you again, Ms. Antonelli.”
“Oh, cut the crap, Nick,” Val said, seating herself on the old leather couch pushed up against a side wall. “We’ve known each other how many years now?”
“Sorry,” he said, not without a grin. “Just trying to be kind, courteous, and respectful.”
“All you need to worry about is protecting and serving,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I decided not to sit since I wanted to appear the dominant alpha male in the room.
“Thanks for reminding me,” he said, placing his hands behind his head, using them as a headrest. “So, what’s up?”
“Val says you’ve been questioning her in the case of the murder of Anna Kruise.”
“So,” he said.
“She a suspect?”
“You mean like officially?”
“Yup.”
“That depends,” he replied.
“On what…Detective Miller?” Val interjected.
He pursed his lips, removed his hand-headrest, sat up straight.
“It depends on if I find myself another person of interest in the case.”
“Coming up empty, huh?” I said.
“Yup,” he said.
“You check out the CCTV vid?”
I didn’t bother telling him that Blood was looking at it as we spoke.
“Yup. Watched it a dozen times. Not much to see there.”
“You dust for prints?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Question the neighbors?”
“Yup and should I also add, what the hell do you think?”
“I get it. This ain’t your first day on the job. Brad even calls you, the old man.”
“I might have to bust him for that,” Miller stated.
“He’s old too,” I pointed out. “He says I’m no spring chicken. That’s an insult to spring chickens, you ask me.”
“Gentlemen,” Val broke in, “if you don’t mind, can we get to the bottom of this?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “I sort of got off point.”
My eyes back on Miller.
“Now, Detective,” I said, “will it be necessary for my friend and former girlfriend—”
“—Former fiancée, don’t forget,” Val was quick to add.
“Yes, former fiancée…Will it be necessary for her to obtain the services of a lawyer?”
Miller rolled his eyes.
“No,” he responded. “But it may be prudent for me to question her a few more times.” He opened his top drawer, pulled out a manila folder, tossed it on the desktop so that it nearly skidded off the side and onto the floor. “Fact is, I just don’t have anything. No prints other than Val’s, Anna’s, those two guys who design your stuff.”
“John and Patrick,” Val offered.
In my head, I pictured the diminutive designing pair. Both of them short, portly, and totally committed to one another both as business partners and lovers.
“
Yeah,” Miller said, “John and Patrick, and a whole bunch of other prints from the people…the women, I should say…who do their shopping there.”
“You interviewed John and Patrick?”
“They have a rock solid alibi. Fashion Week in Florence, Italy which they were attending at the time of the murder.”
“Damn,” I said. “You mean I missed Fashion Week again this year?”
I picked up the folder, opened it. What I saw didn’t shock me. But it did rob me of my breath a little.
Anna Kruise was about forty years old but looked much younger.
Small, of South Korean decent, an attractive if not super attractive woman with dark eyes, a killer smile, and a killer body to go along with it. I’d met her a few times back when Val and I were still together, and I remembered her as cheerful, pleasant, and eager to please. She was always laughing, or if not laughing, trying to come up with reasons for laughing. She was that optimistic about life and especially about her partnership with Val.
But the woman I was looking at in this photo was a far cry from the woman I’d come to know from the John Patrick Boutique. She was lying on the painted floor of the shop, her throat cut from ear to ear. The gash was so deep that a bit of the white vertebra bone was visible through the cut flesh and dark arterial blood. The pool of blood that surrounded her head looked like a scarlet halo, while her long black hair had become soaked and matted with it. Her eyes were wide open. Anna Kruise caught up in a snapshot in time. The very moment she faced down her killer. The last moment of her short life.
A wave of sadness washed over me.
I shuffled through the pictures, one by one, occasionally taking the time to glance at Val. She was keeping her head down, her eyes focused on the tops of her boots. It told me she’d seen the photos. Or maybe, she’d see the real thing? I’d never thought to ask.
Shoving the pictures back inside the envelope, I set them back down onto Miller’s desk.
“Question,” I said. “Who found the body?”
Miller cocked his head in Val’s direction.
“You gotta ask?” she said. “I found her the next morning. I’m the one who called the cops in the first place.”
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, stared at the screen.
Blood.
The text said, Meet me at Newton Plaza. Maintenance and realty office behind the strip mall. Something u need to see.
I pocketed the phone without answering the text. Blood gave you a directive, you followed it. Even if, technically speaking, you were the boss.
“Val,” I said, “we gotta go.”
Miller stood up — stood up tall and strong, his pistol at the ready. He wasn’t a cop so much as a dramatic portrayal of a cop. He fit the bill perfectly.
“Listen, Keep,” he said. “We’ve known one another a long, long time. I don’t have to tell you to keep your distance.” He bit down on his bottom lip. Whenever Miller bit down on his bottom lip, it always meant there was a but coming.
“But,” I said like a question.
Leaning forward, he planted both hands on the desk, looked me in the eye.
“But, if in the course of your private investigation, if you should happen to stumble upon evidence, circumstantial, tangible, or otherwise, it would behoove you to alert me about it pronto.”
“Pronto,” I said.
“I like that word,” he said, cracking a hint of a smile.
“New words,” I said. “Lot of that going around lately.”
“Listen,” he added. “My hands are a bit tied in this case. You’ll find out why the more you poke your nose in it,” he exhaled. “Let’s just say, I’m not entirely unhappy your gonna work on this thing.”
“Really,” I said. “And here I thought that was just a banana in your pocket.”
Val stood, shook her head like she’d had enough guy talk for one day, and went for the door. I followed her, both mine and Miller’s eyes locked on her behind as it strutted gracefully out the door.
Chapter Five
Newton Plaza was a strip mall located in a little hamlet of North Albany nestled between the wealthy suburb of Loudonville and the more pleb-like Latham. It was one of those long open-air malls that sported a Starbucks, an expensive Italian restaurant and bar, a bagel shop, a hair salon, an art gallery, and few high-end shops and jewelry stores that were supported, more or less, by a handful of wealthy housewives who didn’t have anything better to do with their time than spend their old man’s hard earned paycheck. That’s not to say some of the slacker husbands didn’t mind spending their wife’s hard-earned checks, but they didn’t do it at Newton Plaza. There were plenty of gin mills and casinos surrounding the area for that.
I drove past the John Patrick boutique where two long strips of yellow crime scene ribbon blocked the glass in the shape of a tall X, and continued around the back of the mall like Blood directed. I parked the 4Runner directly in front of a white-doored entrance that had the words Stephens Real Estate stenciled on it.
As we were getting out, a car was pulling up.
Turning to look at it, I saw that it was an expensive car. A silver Porsche convertible, the top up because of the cold. The guy driving it pulled up so close to my tail end I was convinced he was about to ram it.
Pulse picked up. Hands naturally formed fists.
“Keeper, relax,” Val said. “That’s Bruce Feingold. He’s the CEO of Schuyler. He’s the one who holds my lease on the boutique.”
“Oh, in that case,” I said, “I’ll be careful not to hit him in the face.”
Bruce got out, stood tall and Gold’s Gym fit. But then I noticed the large sticker prominently displayed on the rear window of his Porsche that showed two rowing oars crisscrossed like an X. So that’s how he stayed in shape. He wore a finely tailored gray suit under a camel hair coat. His hair was long for his age, and slicked back on his head with gel. Or what word did Val use for the stuff? Product?
“We got a problem?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice not too deep, but not too high either. “Can’t you read?”
He held out his hand, pointed to a small sign that was planted at the top of the parking space. I had to crane my neck a little around the front of the 4Runner to read it. It said, Space Reserved for Bruce Feingold, CEO.
I turned back to Bruce. His arm was still extended like he wasn’t about to lower it until I took notice of his gold Rolex.
“You’re the CEO,” I said. “How silly of me. Tell me, how does one get to be CEO?”
He gave me a look like he’d just stepped in dog shit.
“My father started this business, and I built it up to what it is today.” His smile didn’t portray pride, but outright arrogance. “Answer your question? Now please move your behemoth of a vehicle before I have it towed.”
“So, you’re like the local Donald Trump,” I said.
“President Trump, you mean,” he said.
“Duly noted,” I said. Then, “What’s with developers and they’re fixation with their hair?”
“Excuse me?” he said.
Val came around the front of the 4Runner.
“Bruce, lay off,” she said. “Keeper is a private detective. He’s working on the Anna Kruise case for me.”
His face went from sly smile to downright anger.
“Yes, the horrible murder that took place in my plaza. My plaza. Do you have any idea what that does for my reputation? Tenants are already talking about moving out or renegotiating their leases over what’s being wrongly interpreted as a lack of security. Going to cost me a fortune in security improvements.”
“Listen, Mr. CEO,” I said. “I’ll only be a few minutes. My associate is inside viewing the CCTC video from the night of the murder. He wants me to see something that I can only assume you and the police did not see.”
He squinted his eyes.
“I’ve seen that video a thousand times.”
“Time for one thousand and one,�
�� I said.
“Be nice, Bruce,” Val pressed.
“Oh…whatever,” he said, throwing up his arms.
He got back behind the wheel of his Porsche, backed it up, then parked it in the handicap parking space beside my 4Runner.
Blood was waiting for me in the vestibule of the Stephens Real Estate offices. He had his arms crossed when I entered the black and white-marble floored lobby.
“Been waiting long?” I said.
He glanced at his watch.
“Anytime somebody makes me wait, it’s too long.”
“Brothers got no patience,” I said.
“That’s racist,” he said.
“Just trying to lighten things up, bridge the great divide.”
The door opened again, and Val walked in with Bruce on her tail. I noticed the first thing he did upon entering was look at himself in the mirror mounted to the wall beside the front door. He patted his hair and smiled, clearly pleased with himself. Maybe he wanted to be president one day.
“I take it you’re Mr. Blood?” Bruce said, holding out his hand.
Blood took it, shook it.
“Thanks for letting me see the video,” Blood said. “It helps a lot.”
“Never will anyone say that Bruce Feingold stood in the way of justice served.”
“What Bruce is trying to say, gentlemen,” Val said, “is he wants to find out who did this as much as anybody so that he can get his business back on track and start making money again.” She turned to her landlord. “Isn’t that right, Bruce?”
He cocked his head. “Well, I’m not running a charity.”
“I got the video on a laptop in the conference room,” Blood said.
“Movie time,” I said.
Chapter Six
The conference room was big and rectangular. One entire wall was constructed of smoked glass that looked out onto the woods behind the Newton Plaza property. The other wall was covered with dozens of framed photos of the numerous properties either constructed or acquired by the Stephens Real Estate Company.
Dressed to Kill Page 2