by Don Weston
Chapter 9
I slept fitfully because of nightmarish dreams. Rickie Lee Jones mercifully belted a tune on my clock radio at eight o’clock and I responded by groaning and wrapping my pillow around my ears. The radio alarm played for half an hour before it stirred me again. I was behind schedule, so I took a sponge bath to avoid wasting time changing my wet bandages.
The redness and puffiness in my eyes had subsided so my makeup went on smoothly. I slipped into a black dress and viewed my reflection in the mirror. I filled the dress out pretty good upstairs, but it was obvious I’d lost a lot of weight during my stay in the hospital. The skirt was a little short for mourning attire, but it was the only black dress I owned, and I figured it might help me with the questioning of any male suspects I might run into. Men are such dopes.
I packed my .38 into a good-sized purse. That’s the problem for a woman carrying a gun. You have to have a large enough purse to hide it and still be properly accessorized. And where can you put a backup piece in a dress so short it barely hides your modesty?
I wanted to avoid my brothers asking about my feelings, so I snuck down the stairs hoping to get away unobserved. Voices carried from the laundry room in the back of the house, where I figured Angel and my brothers were sorting bugging equipment. To avoid them, I’d have to exit by the front door in plain view of potential witnesses or cops.
I shut the front door softly and scanned the street for cars to see if they belonged in the neighborhood. Right away I saw one looking too much like it belonged. It was a BMW with a fresh wash job. With the rehab of three homes on my street, a car wash would last for a couple of hours, at most, because of all the dust stirred up by workmen.
The Bimmer’s occupants, two men, were busy talking and didn’t notice my exit. Steve didn’t trust me. He set up a stakeout to watch me. I legged it, as ladylike as possible, over the rail at the side of the front porch. As I slid down, trying not to rip a stitch in my dress or my chest, I noticed the driver and his partner were still oblivious to my escape.
I cut through old lady Shelly’s back yard and stopped to straighten my skirt, on-route to an alley leading to Northwest 23rd Avenue. I walked half a block down the alley with plans to get a Venti-sized cup of Cinnamon Spice Mocha at Starbucks.
Once inside the coffee shop, I purchased my drink and sat and waited for the trolley to make an appearance around the corner. I also watched the opposite direction for two harried cops or their Blue Bimmer while I sipped the coffee.
About five minutes passed before the trolley chugged around the corner. It was nine-fifteen and I cursed the surveillance in front of my house which made it necessary for me to rely on public transportation. I had no idea how long it would take to get downtown and later out to Northeast 82nd Avenue to meet Dan and Steve at the funeral home. Too long I imagined.
I got off the Max, two blocks from City Hall, at nine-thirty and walked to the rear entrance. An eight-foot wrought iron fence protected the garbage bins and the gated entry appeared to be locked.
I stepped closer to examine the chain wrapped through the gate and gatepost and noticed the catch on the padlock was ajar. I unwound the chain from the gatepost, lifted the latch, and pushed the gate open. A few furtive moments later I strolled into a small storage room and peered through a glass window in a door. The lobby was empty.
I opened the door, put on my cop persona, and marched confidently up the stairs. It was Saturday. The front door appeared locked and apparently there was no security guard on duty, unless he was making his rounds.
The door to the Mayor’s office was locked, but I saw a shadow further back in the office. His Honor appeared to be in. The door to the public reception area where I’d met Eileen was unlocked and it made me wonder when she was going to call me about the security tape.
Only half the lights were on in the empty clerk’s office. I observed a security camera pointing at an angle to the door and a little red light blinked at me, meaning I was likely being taped. To get to the Mayor I would need to pass through the gate with a buzzer. After my painful step over the porch railing, I balked at a repeat performance. The buzzer barely chimed and shut off as I slid through, the noise almost unnoticeable. In a minute the Mayor would know I was there anyway, and I hoped he wouldn’t call security on me.
I tapped on his frosted glass door with my knuckles and opened it. Mayor Marshall Clemons, a medium-sized, middle-aged man with perfectly combed white hair, peered over his bifocals from behind his desk. He held a pen over several pages of legal papers.
“Mr. Mayor, I’m Billie Bly, and I was hoping I could speak with you for a minute.”
“I know who you are.”
Clemons didn’t act surprised to see me. He removed his square bifocals and laid them on the papers. “It hasn’t been that long since you brought a multi-million-dollar lawsuit upon the city.”
“I guess I don’t get any leniency for a death in the family.” I tried to act sickly and instead came across as pathetic.
“Not at all. Sit down. Didn’t you just get out of the hospital?”
“Yeah, the day my brother was killed.”
“I’m sorry.” He said all the right things, but his eyes glanced behind me, possibly watching for a security guard. “How did you get in here?”
“Back door,” I said. “You shouldn’t leave it unattended, even on a Saturday.”
“Mmm. I’ll check into that. You look pretty good for someone who was gunned down in a warehouse a couple of weeks ago.”
“You heard?” I said.
“Well, of course. It was front page news. We were all worried about you. The commissioners, the police department. About your dismissal, well, we just didn’t have much choice. We had to take action because of the lawsuit against the city. We appreciate the fact you didn’t appeal the decision through the union.” Again, Clemons peaked behind me.
“I don’t like the city’s style of justice,” I said. “Now I’m my own boss and I can work by my own rules.”
“I see. And what are some of your rules? I must say, I’m curious.”
“Things really aren’t that much different. Just not so much politics. For instance, when a brother catches a bullet in the line of duty, everything comes to a halt, and I concentrate on finding the killer.”
“So that’s why you’re here?” he said. “You’re searching for your brother’s killer?”
“You catch on quick.”
“Why come to me?”
“The day before someone shot Darrin, a short man, a dwarf actually, was seen entering the reception area outside your office. He’s been identified as Monty Bales, also known as The Jet. It was during lunch, and I think he might have come into your office. I’m wondering what you two had to talk about.”
“I don’t remember seeing him. What did he look like?”
“I told you, he was short. Shit, Mayor, are you jacking me around, stalling me until a security guard gets here? Maybe you’re going to have me arrested. I can see the headlines now. ‘Mayor busts fallen police officer’s sister.’”
“Take it easy.” Clemons appeared horrified. “I’m expecting someone and I don’t know how much time we have to talk.”
“Well, answer my question and I’ll get out of here.” I wondered who he was waiting for. The Jet?
“Nobody of that description came into my office.”
“Who else did you see Thursday?”
“Nobody while I was here. It was lunchtime. I stopped in to check messages and made some calls. Eileen was the clerk working. None of the other commissioners were around, except, wait, Tom was here. He had somebody in his office, so I didn’t bother him.”
“Tom?”
“Commissioner Tuttle. He and the other person were arguing about something.”
“Did you see the auditor?” I asked, remembering that Eileen said he and Commissioner Tuttle argued that day.
“Bob? No. He left a message saying he wanted to go over some figures with me, b
ut then he took yesterday off. I haven’t had a chance to get back to him.”
Clemson fidgeted with his pen, manipulating it through various fingers. Beads of sweat permeated his brow. I wondered whom he expected. As if he read my mind, he responded.
“I’m the only one here today so far. Commissioner Tuttle said he might drop by, but I think the rest of the commissioners are wiped out between campaigning and the terrorist drills we’ve been running this week. Is there anything else?”
“No, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Clemons said. “I knew your brother, and I’d like to help if I can.”
“I think The Jet was the one that killed Darrin.” I leaned over the desk and dropped my business card. “If you hear anything, call me. I’ve got to go now to make plans for Darrin’s funeral.”
“I’ll see you there,” Clemons said.
I exited through his secretary’s office and opened the front door but closed it without leaving. Footsteps marched toward me from down the hall. I scooted around the secretary’s desk, pushed the chair out, crawled under the desk on my hands and knees, and nearly cried out from a sharp pain radiating in my chest. I pulled the chair into me just as the front door opened. Long feminine legs strolled past me into the Mayor’s office.
“Hello, Marshall. Have you been waiting long?”
Her sulky voice permeated the office, as did a vibrant rose-scented perfume. From my low vantage point, I spotted her hot-red high-heel pumps. Angel would approve, I thought.
“No, you timed it just right,” he said. “No one’s in today so we don’t have to put on airs.”
It was quiet for a long minute, except for smooching sounds I associated with busy lips.
“Billie Bly was here,” Clemons said. “Did you see her leaving?”
“I didn’t see anyone,” the woman said.
“She’s asking about a dwarf. She said he killed her brother.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath followed by silence. “I thought she just got out of the hospital,” the woman said.
“I told you how stubborn she is,” Clemons said. “She’s determined to avenge her brother’s death. She was asking about who was in the office Thursday, the day before her brother was killed. She said someone saw this dwarf come into my office.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said.
It was quiet for a moment. I thought maybe they’d heard me.
“Was he here?” she asked.
“Hell no! I never saw him.”
“Christ, if she’s snooping around, we’ve got to be careful,” the woman said. “We don’t want her messing up everything.”
“You’re not suggesting . . .”
“Nothing of the sort,” she said. “But she has been a pain for you and your re-election. We should just lay low until this thing blows over. That idea we talked about? Maybe we should put that into action.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Clemons said.
“Let’s get out of here and you can buy me some brunch,” she said.
“I thought we’d go someplace quiet,” Clemons said.
“Like a motel with separate adjoining rooms. I don’t think so. I’m tiring of meeting on the sly. You can buy me something to eat and then we’ll go back to my place, and I’ll rock your world.”
“What about your husband?”
“He’s out of town all weekend.”
“Where?”
“Seattle. Some kind of seminar.”
“That’s nice of him.”
The lights went out and I felt a slight breeze as they whisked by the desk I hid under. I carefully dislodged myself after the door closed. By the time I managed to get on my feet and to the stairs, all I could see was the back side of a tall brunette, in a red miniskirt and heels, walking down the stairs with Clemons.
I wanted to follow them, but it was past ten o’clock and I needed to catch Tuttle if he was in his office. I walked down the hallway to his door, but the office was dark. I jiggled the knob and it was locked. I went in through the reception area and tried his side door, also locked.
I exited on Fourth Street and made for the bus stop to go to the funeral home. As luck would have it, the Mayor and his girlfriend stopped at a light only 30 feet in front of me in his white Mercedes.
I recognized the Mayor’s hottie in the red dress. I’d seen a picture of her in one of my many trips to City Hall when I fought my lawsuit against Chris The Creep. I needed all kinds of records and documents and public policy manuals to support my case and I’d met with her husband, Bob Blaney, a few times.
Blaney, the city auditor, was a laid back, unassuming man with a friendly demeanor and average looks. Who would think he would have landed a trophy-wife like Gloria? I wondered if he had been yelling at Tuttle and maybe others because he suspected his wife was cheating on him. If so, apparently, he hadn’t figured out it was the Mayor she was boinking. I wondered with whom else she was playing house.
Gloria appeared animated as she talked to the Mayor. I tried to get closer to hear what she was saying. I stood on the edge of the sidewalk curb ten feet behind them when she twisted her head in my direction.
Instinctively I stepped behind a pole displaying the Walk and Wait pedestrian signals and held my breath. I heard one word uttered from her lips as I hid.
“Shit!”
The light changed, the Mayor drove off, and I shifted my angle to stay concealed. Did she see me? If she did, she must have wondered why I hid. Why did I hide? It was then I remembered something I’d heard in their conversation. Gloria’s words wafted incoherently into the air, jumbled by traffic noises and people talking around me, and magically realigned when I began breathing again.
“That bitch is going to cause trouble.”
Chapter 10
I walked up Fourth Avenue to Madison Street and found a sign displaying the options for catching buses. The number 19 would drop me off within three blocks of the funeral home on Northeast 80th Avenue and Glisan Street. Ten minutes later I climbed the steps up the bus mindful it was time for some pain pills.
I dropped a bus ticket in the box and a couple of pills into my dry mouth and sat on a side seat where I could stretch out. The acrid taste of the pain pills reminded me how bitter life can be. I thought about Darrin and tried not to cry.
I got off the bus, thankful for the short walk. The medication had kicked in, but I felt so tired. When I stepped through the doors at the funeral home and found Steve and Dan talking to a mortuary counselor, it wasn’t “it’s good to see you up and around” or “how do you feel?” Steve said to me.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home.”
“I came to help plan Darrin’s sendoff, Mister Thomas. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Well, no. It’s just . . . I mean, I came because I didn’t want Dan to be alone. I thought your brothers were back at your house watching over you.”
Dan grinned like he was expecting me to show up.
“They think I’m in bed asleep. Oh, come on, Steve. Do you think I’m not going to be a part of my own brother’s funeral?”
“I guess not.” He sulked. “Maybe I’m not needed here, then. You can drive Dan home, can’t you?”
“Me? I took the bus. I didn’t want to alarm your surveillance team in front of my house. They were having such a good time swapping stories.”
Steve’s face flushed and he motioned for me to sit at a table.
“Thanks, Stevie.” It turns me on when I get his goat.
I sat at a table covered with samples of prayer cards to be handed out at the funeral, picked one and asked the counselor to include a copy of Darrin’s favorite prayer as an insert. Arrangements were made for a newspaper story even though the department had flooded the local media with press releases and the television news had already run several stories on his death. I gave the counselor a brief history of his rank-and-file accomplishments, a list of
his volunteer activities, and suggested a donation to a children’s charity in lieu of flowers.
“We were thinking of this stainless-steel casket,” Steve said, pointing to a display.
I recoiled. “Oh God no, it looks like a bullet.”
“I think it looks nice,” Steve said. “And it’s moderately priced.”
“I’ll pay for the damn coffin,” I said.
I got out my credit card and thought unkind thoughts about the cheap bastards at the police bureau. Steve must have read my mind because he excused himself to make a phone call. Dan grinned at his retreat and winked at me.
“Let’s go with the nice mahogany model,” I told the counselor.
After the decisions had been made, I noticed Steve pacing back and forth outside the window with his cell phone to his ear. When Dan and I completed the paperwork, we joined him in the parking lot as he finished one of many calls.
“I’ve got someone at the city working on compensating you for your expenses,” Steve said. “You shouldn’t have to foot the bill. Hell, he was killed in the line of duty.”
I nodded and searched the street to see if Angel lurked nearby. Sure enough, a block down the street I spotted her pastel green Volkswagen Beetle parked behind a rusting orange pickup truck. I fought the urge to feel under my passenger seat for Angel’s bug after I sat next to Steve in his car. Dan fidgeted behind me, likely also fighting the need to check.
“Any leads yet on who killed Darrin?” I asked.
“I told Dan what we’ve learned so far, which isn’t much,” Steve said. “The Jet is nowhere to be found. I think your friend, Chris, was pulling your leg. And, by the way, he’s skipped out too.”
“He probably thinks the shooter is after him,” I said. “Maybe he’s right.”
“You figure someone might try to keep him from talking?” Dan said.
“I don’t know. Chris sure isn’t going to talk now and the pressure must be building on whoever hired The Jet to kill me. He bungled the job twice and the person who hired the hit has got to be nervous because he knows I’m coming after him.”