The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  The DAC. I knew the place, only because I’d once had a client ask me to meet him there in the Grill Room. With the annual membership fee of thirty-five hundred dollars, I had to wonder if I should trade in my plastic badge for a cop’s shield.

  While Partello spent the next hour working up a sweat in the comfort of an air-conditioned weight room, I trolled for parking under anything that looked like it might offer some shade. Giving that up, I sat and perspired.

  My Corsica’s air conditioner blew as hot as Ross Perot and by the time my cop emerged at eight fifteen, I was mopping up rivulets of sweat that ran between my breasts and down my stomach with a Subway napkin I’d found under the front seat.

  The Jimmy took off and I tailed it until it entered Partello’s neighborhood. I figured him to be going home for some sleep. I made my way to the City-County Building, thinking that a peek at some of the cases featuring Partello would give me an idea about how this new little rich cop was getting along with the fine citizens of Detroit.

  As I walked past the bronzed, muscular statue of a man known as the Spirit of Detroit, it only served to remind me how much time had passed since I’d been laid.

  Public records are a private eye’s best friend. According to them, Joey Partello had been on the Motor City’s payroll longer than Chrysler had sucked hind tit to Chevrolet. I traced cases back five, ten, twelve, sixteen years—Partello’s name was all over the place.

  It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t sure how long Lee Khrisopoulis had been with the force, but she’d have to have her head buried not to know that Partello was a fixture. I knew one thing: Our prearranged meeting wasn’t soon enough.

  I drove to headquarters.

  The officer standing guard at the metal detector checked his roster and told me that Khrisopoulis was on days off.

  I debated looking in on Harry, but what was I going to say? I was admittedly confused, even a little ticked off. But until I knew what this goose chase was about, Lee Khrisopoulis was my client and I had promised confidentiality. I’d give it, too, at least until the odds showed that I needed to do otherwise.

  For the second time in recent history, I called the Secretary of State’s office. My source asked if my calls were going to come in threes, like death.

  “You never know until that third one hits, do you?”

  He didn’t have a comeback, so he gave me the information I needed and hung up.

  * * *

  —

  The house looked like a Norman Rockwell painting in a Norman Rockwell neighborhood, light years from the barred windows and graffiti of downtown Detroit. I hurried up the concrete walk that led to the front door, noting that the flower gardens were in need of weeding. I had a sudden image of America’s Painter turning in his grave.

  I stood head-on in front of the fisheye, figuring that any smart cop would check the peephole before opening the door.

  Lee Khrisopoulis didn’t disappoint me. She flung the door open and yelled, “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Turn that question around and walk it right back at yourself.” I eyed her evenly. “Joey Partello has been on the force nearly as long as Coleman Young was in office. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. As thoughts of police brutality shot through my mind, she slammed the door, jerked the cigarette from her mouth, and jammed her eye to the peephole.

  I’d never seen anyone look more disgusting with a smoke. But I hadn’t been sent here from Lung Patrol. “You’re paying me for this little game,” I started, “so here’s your money’s worth. He’s got some dough. I don’t know how he’s making it, but I can find that out, too, if it’s important to you. Also got a major remodel going on, and he’s apparently making enough money to join the crowd at the DAC.”

  She turned, surprised. “You got all that in twenty-four hours?”

  “Hell, don’t you know anything about gathering information? I had all that before your first cup of coffee this morning.”

  “Harry told me you were good,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Did Harry put you up to this? Tell him April Fools was three months ago.”

  “No, Harry doesn’t know about this.” She took another drag, went for the peephole again, then backed up and fanned smoke like she was fighting off bees. “I meant it when I said no one else could know about this. I had to be sure you could do a job quickly and without anyone getting suspicious. Besides, I figured my odds were better with you since you’re a woman. I thought you would understand.”

  “The first thing you need to understand is that acting like a damn woman will bring six courses of hell down on you. Start acting like a cop.”

  “You’re right.” She made a sound that could’ve passed for either a laugh or a cry. “Of course, if I weren’t a woman, I wouldn’t be in this damn mess.”

  “You’re giving men way too much credit.”

  “Possibly, but I have reason to. Do you know what kind of danger you’ve put me in by coming here? Not to mention yourself.”

  “Since you seem to be playing some sort of game with me, how the hell am I supposed to know? It took me no time to get the scoop on Joey Partello. I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait around for our meeting this afternoon. Now, are you going to tell me what this is about, or do I walk?”

  “I’m paying you five hundred a day.” She turned and glared at me. “That should be enough to make you stick to the game plan.”

  “I don’t play games, Officer.” I grabbed for the doorknob.

  She stopped me. “You can’t leave now.”

  “Watch me.”

  “I’m not the one watching.” She let go of my arm and nodded toward the door.

  It was my turn to check the spy hole. There was a blue sedan parked up the street, the same one I’d noticed earlier when I’d pulled up.

  She started walking. “Come sit down. I’ll tell you the whole sordid story.”

  * * *

  —

  The officer’s home was immaculate, except for an ashtray full of butts on the coffee table. When she started to light up another smoke, I frowned. She paused, then slid it back in the pack. “I didn’t smoke before…well, before everything. Thought it would calm my nerves, but it probably just shows how much of a wreck I really am, doesn’t it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She nodded. “Have you ever had your privacy violated, Mrs. Shelley?”

  “Mary.”

  “Mary. Your home invaded? Things taken?”

  We were seated on the couch, angled toward each other. I shook my head, waited for her to continue.

  “It started three months ago. I work the Property Room at headquarters. Items began disappearing. When I reported what was going on, I started getting threats.

  “Then someone gained entry to my house, my home. It wasn’t a B and E, and it didn’t look like anything was missing. But I knew someone had been in here.” She shuddered slightly, then went on with her story.

  “Do you know what it’s like to realize that? To walk into a room and know that someone had been there? To wonder, Did he sit on that chair? Did he go through my clothing? Did he see his reflection in the bathroom mirror—the mirror I have to look in every day? And the kitchen. Did he put poison in my orange juice? Did he hide something in the cereal box?

  “It almost drove me insane. I ended up throwing out everything in the house. But I couldn’t figure out what he’d been doing here.”

  “How do you know it was a he?”

  “He called, finally. Asked if I’d determined what was missing.”

  “So he did take something.”

  “Oh, yeah, he took something, all right.”

  I waited for her to tell me what it was. She didn’t offer. “So?” I prodded.

  “How
in the hell do I say this?” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Just say it, Lee. You’re not going to shock me.”

  She looked at me. “Okay. Panties. He stole a pair of panties from the bathroom hamper.”

  “Panties? Why in the hell would he want—” I stopped. There could only be one explanation, unless he was a pervert. “DNA, right?”

  “Yes. Damn it. Partello found out I was having an affair with a married man. Worse than that, actually—a fellow officer. The DNA from the panties can prove it.

  “That’s why I think he’s the one. Partello. The one who was here, the one who’s been calling, threatening me, threatening us. And if my friend’s wife finds out, well…It will kill him if he loses his wife and kids.

  “You see, my friend found out about a crooked cop ring. He doesn’t have proof yet, but he’s getting close—and it looks like Partello is the leader. So, my friend confronted him—I begged him not to, but he really thought he could use the cops’ unwritten code of loyalty. Partello just told him that loyalty was a two-way street. Apparently, he started doing some investigating of his own. He threatened to expose us. Leverage, you know.

  “Only now, my friend is wondering if he should bust the ring—for the greater cause. He feels that less people will be hurt in the long run, that it may be worth risking his marriage. It’s eating him up.”

  I waited, taking it all in. When she didn’t volunteer any more information I said, “What do you think?”

  “At first, I thought all I wanted was to get the panties back. Remove the incriminating evidence from the equation. But now, laying it all out like this?” She shrugged. “Nothing makes me sicker than crooked cops. The police department is supposed to be made up of people who are willing to serve and protect. Sounds corny, sometimes, when you boil it down to that. But I don’t want to see the department under siege from within.”

  “You’re a twenty-first-century Beaubien.”

  “What?”

  “Mademoiselle Beaubien?” I watched her face, but nothing registered. “Don’t tell me they let you work at 1300 Beaubien without telling you where the name came from. Chief Pontiac united all the Indian tribes in the Northwest Territory to lay siege against Fort Detroit.”

  “When the hell did this happen?”

  “Something like three hundred years ago. This young French woman named Beaubien—I don’t know her first name—learned of it and warned the Fort’s commander. Saved the day, as it were. More than that, really. She saved Detroit.

  “You’re our Beaubien,” I continued, “only you’re already on the inside. You need to dig the department out of this. We just have to figure out how.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I do know one thing. I don’t want this to hinge on an incriminating pair of panties.” She lit a cigarette, then laughed bitterly. “Sounds like the damned White House, doesn’t it?”

  “Just like,” I said.

  “Well, I can’t help that. But I can tell you that I haven’t been with my friend since Partello was in my home.”

  “The property that’s missing. What is it?”

  For the first time, she looked truly frightened. “Drugs,” she said. “Meth, crack, coke, heroin, GHB—a.k.a. the date-rape drug—tons of marijuana. Drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.”

  * * *

  —

  We talked over options, laid some new ground rules that we both could live with, and worked on our strategy.

  I asked about the blue sedan.

  “One of Partello’s boys. Been watching the house, but I haven’t caught anyone tailing me while I’m at work. My guess is there are enough cops involved to watch me while I’m on duty.” A tremor shook her body. “It’s scary, not knowing who to trust.”

  I told her where I’d parked and asked if my car was blocking hers in the garage.

  “No. I’m on the other side.”

  “Good. I’ll leave it here for now.” I told her my plan while I made a call from my cellphone. I wasn’t sure if I could trust her line not to be tapped.

  In twenty minutes, Vic was following my instructions to the letter, slowly pulling through the alley behind Lee’s house. I darted across the lawn, keeping the house between me and the surveillance goon. On my cue, Vic made a rolling stop and I slipped into the back seat of his beige Plymouth.

  * * *

  —

  The bland set of wheels was the last thing you’d expect someone who looked like Vic to drive. He’s got a shaved head, more holes than Dillinger, and he’s on the annual Christmas card lists of four tattoo emporiums.

  He’d recently begun working for a lawn service so he was tanned, and his tall, slim physique was quickly showing some muscled definition. He’d be perfect for the job I had in mind.

  I asked him to swing by MC Sports on the way home. He frowned, but obliged, and I made a quick run inside while he circled the parking lot so he could keep the air conditioner humming.

  Plastic bag in hand, I crawled back into Vic’s car and told him to swing by my office. Prometheus Investigations offers about as much leg room as a crop-duster, but its location just off Woodward is handy to my downtown haunts.

  “You’re always wanting to help out, right?” I asked Vic after we’d climbed the stairs to my office.

  “Sure,” he answered, giving the word an extra syllable with a wary lilt. He lit a Camel as if he knew he was going to need something to steady his nerves.

  I handed him the shopping bag. “Here’s your costume.”

  He leaned over a round coffee table the size of a Frisbee, ground out the cigarette in an ashtray with HOLIDAY INN printed in the bottom, and headed for the bathroom.

  Plastic crackled on the other side of the bathroom door, then everything was quiet. When Vic spoke, I could barely hear his voice from the other side of the door. He’d uttered a confused-sounding What the hell? that was followed by more silence.

  Then: “No way!”

  That, I could’ve heard from Cleveland.

  “Mom,” he said then with that two-syllable singsong he’d used as a teenager when he was annoyed with me, “you gotta be shitting me.”

  “You can get in the men’s locker room at the DAC a hell of a lot easier than I can. Besides, you pick locks better than I do.”

  He was still cursing as he walked out of the bathroom, wearing the tennis whites and carrying a racket and a navy duffel bag. “I look like a damn Harvard prep.”

  “Not yet you don’t. Tuck in the shirttail and lose the nose ring. Where’s the belt I bought?”

  * * *

  —

  Getting the panties was as simple as throwing fifty bucks out the window. There’s always someone around to pick it up.

  Vic told me how he’d gone about it, how the kid gathering up towels in the locker room had told him he looked ridiculous in that get-up.

  Vic paused and gave me a told-you-so smirk. When I didn’t say anything, he got back down to business.

  He’d agreed with the guy, then cut to the chase and told him it was a front. This excited the kid, so Vic pulled the fifty from his pocket and asked which of the vertical coffins belonged to Partello. The kid spit out the number, took the bill, and offered to stand watch while Vic picked the lock. The red lace panties were zipped up tight in a plastic evidence bag inside a sneaker.

  Sometimes you had to wonder how a crooked cop ever hooked together enough brain cells to pull off a scam.

  * * *

  —

  I arranged a meeting with Harry while Vic paid a few calls to his connections in Detroit’s underworld. Don’t ask; I don’t and I never will. After getting Vic out from under his father’s spell, I learned to thank God for every day I have with my son. I can’t do much more than that. After all he’s been through, my son is in many ways a lot older than I am.

  W
e—Vic and I—reconnoitered at my office and, after an all-clear from Lee, swung by her place and picked up my Corsica. I checked the glove compartment first thing for my Smith & Wesson .22 snub-nose.

  We subverted, snaking our way along backroads and through subdivisions in what we determined was a successful job of arriving at my house un-tailed. We had a pizza delivered and waited for nightfall.

  * * *

  —

  Besides the oppressive humidity, another drawback of summer is the challenge of where to hide a gun on you without the benefit of jackets. At least my weapon’s small, so I can usually come up with something.

  Tonight I opted for a stylish rendition of a fishing vest I’d bought in khaki and dyed black for just such occasions. It’s longer than a man’s vest and the zip pockets are priceless for stakeouts, bugouts, and my all-too-infrequent campouts. It’s made of lightweight cotton with an elastic insert at the middle of the back which provides just enough gathers to camouflage the .22 I had tucked in my waistband.

  I was parked down Beaubien, as far away from police headquarters as I could get and still be able to see anything. I’d driven my pickup—a ’56 GMC stepside, ginger metallic—in case Lee’s goon was watching for my Chevy, and had let Vic out to walk from my office.

  I watched for him now, using the binoculars he’d given me for Christmas. When I saw him climb the steps and go through the doors of 1300, something gripped my chest like a vise and I regretted having ever dragged him into this.

  I thought about the conversation I’d had earlier with Harry. I’d persuaded him to trust me on this one, told him that Vic had a great in, that he was going to tell the guy in Property to use his cellphone and call the cop ring’s street connection to verify that Vic had been sent there to pick up the goods.

  “Vic’s not in that racket anymore,” Harry had said.