Michael sat up to face her. She was kneeling on the bed, naked. Tears were running down her face, down her chest, dripping from the ends of her nipples. Very erotic, he thought.
“Help you how?” he heard himself saying.
“You know,” she said, playing coy now. “Take care of him. For me.” She ran a finger down his chest, down his belly. He shivered involuntarily. “And Cookie will take care of Mikey.”
He rolled off the bed and onto his feet in one swift motion. Now he started dressing. Better get dressed and let his brain start making decisions again. He pulled on his pants and found his shirt on the floor.
“You’re good, Cookie,” he said, zipping his fly. “But not good enough for me to put a hit on some goddamn Munchkin. I told you before, I’m in sales. Not service. Try somebody else, dollface,” he suggested. “Maybe somebody who has to get paid to get laid.”
“I’ll find somebody all right,” she shrieked at his departing backside. “Somebody good. Somebody with balls, unlike you, you dago son of a bitch.”
When the door slammed, Cookie sat and thought. Jewell Newby was on to a good thing with this condo scam. She’d done some homework. He thought she was too stupid to read those sales contracts. She knew how he operated. And when the time was right, she’d make her move. Get a piece of his action. With what she knew, he’d have to cut her in. For now, though, she’d have to play dumb. But only until she got things set up just right.
She showered and dressed. She liked nice hotels because they had thick towels and bathrobes and hair dryers in the bathroom. This one even unplugged. She wrapped the cord around it and tucked it in her shoulder bag along with the robe. She took pains with dressing, making sure the coral silk minidress was adjusted just so, that her heavy gold rope necklace and matching earrings hadn’t been displaced. Then she applied eyeliner, lip liner, blusher, and cologne. She stood in front of the full-length mirror and sighed.
Then she sat on the bed and reached for the telephone on the nightstand.
“Sun Bay Rentals.” The voice was a woman’s.
Unfamiliar. Cookie frowned, but she asked for Butch. No, she told the woman, she did not care to say who was calling, just tell Butch it was personal.
The woman put the phone down. Five minutes later Butch was on the line. His voice was wary. “Hello?”
“Hey, Butchie,” she said breathily. “Guess who?”
Chapter FOURTEEN
“Gibby?” It was dark in the El Cap. Dark and cool, with the over-head fans twirling slowly overhead. Truman had to squint hard to see the figure standing beside him at the bar.
Frank Gibhart slapped his rounded belly proudly. “I’ve put on some weight since I quit drinking. Bet you didn’t know me, huh?”
“Oh,” Truman said. He frowned. “Gibby, I’m sorry. I clean forgot about that. We can go somewhere else if you like. McDonald’s or something.”
“Nah,” Frank said, pulling out the bar stool next to Truman’s. “This is fine. I always liked this place. Sober, it looks even better. I’ll drink iced tea. Do they still have navy bean soup on Mondays?”
An Italian family had owned the El Cap Bar on Central for as long as Truman could remember. Years ago it had belonged to a relative who’d been a major league umpire. Various cousins had run the place ever since, but they’d kept all the signed baseballs and bats, the faded black-and-white team photos, pennants, and yellowing newspaper clippings.
Aside from the cold beer and authoritative sports talk, the El Cap was famous for six-inch-thick sandwiches and homemade soup.
Truman took a sip from the pilsner of beer sitting in front of him. “I already ordered it. Ham sandwiches and navy bean soup. Right?”
“Don’t tell me you’re buying?”
“First round only,” Truman retorted. “I’m an old pensioner, you know. Besides, the way I remember it, you always were good at rigging expense-account lunches.”
“I learned everything I know from the master,” Gibhart said.
Frank Gibhart had been pleased to hear from his old boss. Truman Kicklighter was the last of a breed. A newsman down to the bone. If Truman Kicklighter needed a favor, he had plenty in the bank.
Frank had spent Monday morning working the phones, relishing the opportunity to do some old-time dirt-digging.
Rose, who was married to one of the cousins, brought Frank a mug of iced tea and another beer for Truman.
Frank slid a manila folder toward Truman.
“I saw that piece on the news this afternoon. Hell of a thing. How come you didn’t call me sooner?”
Truman shrugged. “Didn’t think of it as a story. You know how it is. You’re close to something, it doesn’t strike you as newsworthy.”
They both knew Truman hadn’t called his old colleague in the first place because he didn’t want Frank, or anybody else, to feel sorry for him. Now, though, Ollie had forced his hand. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.
Truman opened the file. “Left my cheaters at home,” he said. “Give me the highlights, will you?”
“As far as I can tell,” Frank began, “this Church of Cosmic Unity’s been in St. Pete for about nine months. They’re having services in some old movie theater downtown.”
“Must be the Rialto. It’s the only one left,” Truman said. “What about the head honcho? Name’s Newby or something.”
“The Reverend Jewell G. Newby,” Frank said, relishing the sound of the names rolling off his tongue. “Age fifty- two. Up until 1987 Newby drove a truck for a wholesale distributor of candy, potato chips, and snack cakes in Dayton, Ohio. That year our man got himself a gilt-edged diploma from a mail-order divinity school out in Laguna Vista. He moved to Plano, Texas, and started an outfit called the Church of the Higher Being.”
“That’s a religion?” Truman asked. “What do they believe in?”
He had Frank there. “Besides capitalism? Beats me. The church was rolling along pretty good for a while there. But in 1988 he and his wife split up, and the Rev pulls up stakes and moves to San Antonio.”
Frank looked down at his notes and frowned. “Things get a little bit cloudy then. For two years, I couldn’t find an address, a church, nothing. Then, in 1991, he pops up again. Now he’s running an outfit called the Church of Cosmic Unity. He’s bought an old Baptist church in down-town San Antonio, and he’s packing ‘em in.”
“What’s the scam?” Truman said.
Rose set their plates and bowls in front of them and went to the other end of the counter to watch television. Hot, ham-scented steam rose up and fogged Truman’s glasses. He dipped a spoon in, tasted, and sighed. The soup was the same, maybe better than he remembered.
“The scam?” Truman repeated.
“Always the cynic,” Frank said, adding pepper to the soup.
“Tell me.”
“Well, the church bought up a good bit of real estate in San Antonio. A couple of parking lots downtown, maybe half a dozen foreclosed houses. And church members were being encouraged both to give money and to buy property and deed it over to the church outright.”
“Anything wrong with that?” Truman watched the younger man’s face. He’d been right to call Frank. Never missed a trick, this guy, and since his drinking days were over, he’d only gotten better.
“You tell me,” Frank said. “A cop buddy ran a check. The Reverend Jewell Newby has no record. Not even an unpaid parking ticket. Pays his taxes, seems to report every dime.”
“Smart,” Truman said. “What else have you got?”
“The Rev likes a warm climate, seems like. After San Antonio he opened a church in Scottsdale, Arizona. Same church name, same game plan. First he rents space, builds up a congregation, and starts acquiring real estate.”
“Still nothing illegal or immoral. Right?”
“Not as far as I can tell. The church has a two-hour program on a cable station out there, called Blessing Time. I talked to a guy at the station, he promised to send you a videotape.”
&nb
sp; Frank stopped talking to eat his soup before it got cold. It was coolish outside, high seventies. The bar was nearly empty today. Camilla, the owner’s wife or daughter, he didn’t know which, emerged from the kitchen and was drying and stacking glasses at the back bar.
After they finished, they traded war stories for a while.
“Got remarried two years ago,” Frank said. “She’s a great gal.”
“Good for you,” Truman said.
Frank put his hand on Truman’s arm. “I felt real bad when I heard the news about Nellie, TK.”
“Thanks,” Truman said simply.
Gibby gave Truman a searching look. “So. We’ve been scooped on this church thing once already. Think there’s still anything in it for us?”
“I don’t know,” Truman said. He motioned for Camilla, asked her to wrap his sandwich half in foil. “Did you check with the law in Arizona to see if everything there is on the up-and-up?”
“No record there either,” Frank said regretfully. “There are a couple of callbacks I’m still waiting on, but so far the guy’s as clean as they come.”
“Slick’s more like it,” Truman muttered.
“I’m waiting,” Frank reminded him.
“Oh.” Truman shrugged. “Like I told you. It’s early yet. We only got the notice last week. All I know is, the prices they’re asking, none of the current tenants can afford to buy. And everybody’s got their bowels all in an uproar over it. I’m the fact-finding committee.”
“Condo conversion, huh? How much time did they give you?”
Truman tucked the sandwich into his jacket pocket. Camilla brought the check and tucked it under Frank’s glass. “I got this one,” Gibby said, laying money on the counter.
“Ninety days,” Truman said.
“That’s all?”
“Doesn’t much matter,” Truman said. “Unless we can find a way to stop this Newby fella, we’ll all be looking for a new address.”
Frank looked at his watch and sighed. “I better hit the road before traffic gets backed up on the bridge.” He clasped Truman’s hand, squeezed it tightly. “Let me make some more calls,” he said. “Something sounds kinky.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Truman agreed.
Chapter FIFTEEN
Truman eyed the guy leaning against the receptionist’s desk, chatting with Yvonne Sweatt. Good-looking, tan. He was vaguely familiar.
Probably somebody from this Cosmic Church outfit, Truman decided, checking out the merchandise.
“Mr. Kicklighter?”
“Yeah?” Truman wasn’t usually this rude, but today politeness wasn’t in him.
The younger man smiled and held out his hand to shake. “Bobby Roberts. St. Pete Police Department.”
“You were at the track. When we found the body.”
“That’s right,” Roberts said. “You know, I went to high school with a Cheryl Kicklighter. Would you be any relation?”
“Her father,” Truman said, waiting.
He smiled shyly. “I shouldn’t tell you this. I used to have kind of a crush on your daughter. What’s she up to these days? She live around here?”
“Yes,” Truman said warily. “She teaches kindergarten and she goes to school nights. She’s working on her master’s degree.”
“A teacher, huh? So is she married or anything like that?”
“Cheryl’s divorced,” he told Roberts. He gave him a searching look. “What was it you wanted to see me about? Or did you want to see me?”
Roberts slapped his forehead. “Hey. What am I doing, going on about old times? Mr. Kicklighter, I’m working on the Rosie Figueroa homicide. There’s some questions I’d like to ask you.”
The reporter in him came back. “Could I see your badge or something?” Truman asked. “No offense, but you never know.”
“Sure,” Roberts said. “Can we sit down over there to talk?”
He was pointing at the wicker chairs and rockers in the front window of the lobby. He reached into his inner coat pocket and brought out a badge pinned to a leather case.
Truman peered at it. It was a uniformed officer’s shield. “You’re not a detective?”
“No, sir. My captain just wanted me to do some follow-up stuff.”
They were sitting in the window now, the afternoon sun streaming in on them, showing strong lines of dust motes.
“Like what?” Truman asked. “I thought the D.A. agreed to drop the charges against Mel. Doesn’t that mean the investigation is closed?”
“Not really,” Bobby said. “There are so many loose ends. My supervisor hates loose ends. ‘They’ll jump up and bite you on the ass every time,’ that’s what he always says.”
“True enough,” Truman agreed. He’d always been a detail man himself. Check everything twice, that was his motto. Saves heartache later on.
“I was at the track that night,” Bobby said.
“I remember now.”
“Moonlighting,” Bobby said. “My ex-wife ran up the credit cards to the max before she took off. That’s why I work a second job.”
“You meet all kinds of people, working a place like the track.”
“I’ll say,” Bobby agreed. “You name it, I’ve seen it.”
“You knew Rosie?”
“Sure,” Bobby said lightly. “Everybody out there knew Rosie. Nice girl. I’ll tell you, it was a hell of a shock when I saw who it was.”
Truman nodded and said nothing. It was a technique he’d learned as a reporter. Sometimes you found out more by the questions you didn’t ask. He had a lot of questions about the murder of Rosie Figueroa.
“Mr. Kicklighter,” Bobby said, leaning forward. “Has your friend, Mr. Wisnewski, said anything at all about that night? What he and that girl were doing in that service area? It’s restricted, you know, only authorized track personnel were supposed to be down there.”
Truman laughed. “Mel thinks he was at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh, watching Roberto Clemente get a hit off Bob Gibson that night.”
Bobby’s eyebrows shot up.
“Alzheimer’s,” Truman said. “I thought you people were aware of his condition.”
“We were told that he was confused, possibly senile,” Bobby said. “And he really has no idea what he saw or did that night? For real?”
“He’s a sick, confused old man,” Truman said sadly. “The night he spent in jail damn near killed him. His wife has to put him in a nursing home, you know. The judge made it a condition of dropping the charges.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Bobby said. “It must be tough for Mrs. Wisnewski. But let me ask you something, Mr. Kicklighter…”
“What’s that?”
“Okay. Did I understand correctly that you told one of the officers that Mr. Wisnewski went looking for Rosie to buy a tout sheet?”
“That’s right. I told it to all your people,” Truman said. “Mel went off to buy the damned thing before I could stop him.”
“Did Mr. Wisnewski say why he was so anxious to do that?”
“I told you,” Truman said, letting the annoyance creep into his voice, “she told Mel last year that she was working on a new system. Something surefire that would mean guaranteed winning picks. Big money. It was all a lot of hooey, but you couldn’t tell Mel that. He liked Rosie. He was convinced she was some kind of genius.”
Bobby’s voice was almost a whisper now. “Did he say anything about a computer program?”
“A computer program? Come on. Where would somebody like this girl get a computer program?”
“Rosie’s boyfriend was a computer programmer,” Bobby said. “We have information that the two of them had developed some kind of computer program that was eighty percent accurate in picking winning dogs.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, sir,” Bobby said. “If your friend Mr. Wisnewski knew about that program, that could have been his motive for murdering her. To get this computer program. It could be worth a lot of money to some p
eople.”
“Mel bet two-dollar quinellas,” Truman pointed out. “Does that sound like he was a gambling kingpin or something? Look. I told you, Mel is seventy-eight years old. He knows as much about computers as Job’s hen turkey. If there really is some kind of computer thing involved, then that’s your motive. Find somebody who wanted that thing bad enough to kill for it. Somebody who’d know what to do with it.”
“He could take it to somebody who would know exactly what to do with it,” Bobby pointed out. “There are computer shops all over town.”
“Have you found this computer program?” Truman demanded. “Did they find it when your people took Mel into custody?”
“No. But your friend could have taken it. He could have hidden it somewhere. Passed it off to a partner, maybe. That fenced area leads out to the parking lot. He could have tossed it to somebody on the other side of the fence.”
“And then sat down beside the dead girl to wait for the police?” Truman said, scoffing. “You really believe that cockamamie theory?”
“What about the knife?” Bobby demanded. “And the blood? His fingerprints were all over that knife. Her blood was on his hands and his clothes.”
“I never saw Mel with a knife,” Truman said. “Pearl says he had a little pocketknife he used to take fishing. But it’s in his dresser drawer. She checked. It’s right there. You can ask her.”
Bobby stood up and straightened the crease in his slacks. “Maybe I will. Is she home right now?”
Butch Goolsby snuck a peek at himself in the motel room window before he knocked. “Lookin’ good, Butch,” he said. He was a little nervous, but he’d knocked back two or three healthy slugs of Early Times at home, just to take the edge off.
“Butch? Is that you, baby? Come on in. The door’s open.”
“Baby?”
She hadn’t called him baby since she was eighteen years old. Baby?
The room was nice. King-sized bed, big sliding glass doors that opened onto a balcony. You could see the Gulf of Mexico from the doorway, see the waves rolling in, the blue sky and white sand.
Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split Page 10