Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  “Okay. So?”

  “An officer called me back about an hour later, said that he’d knocked on Crowder’s door, walked around the place, but nobody seemed to be around. I thanked him for his time and then started looking for the phone number of Crowder’s neighbors. He mentioned their names, thank God. I finally got through to the wife. She said that they went over to Crowder’s house with a bottle of wine and a homemade apple pie around seven last night. Nobody answered the door. There was a light on inside, but since he wasn’t around, they figured they’d gotten the date wrong.”

  “Huh.”

  “Something happened to Crowder between the time I talked to him yesterday afternoon and seven o’clock last night. I got a bad feeling about this.”

  Emmett’s eyes roamed the room. “I need coffee. You want some?”

  “We gotta find out.”

  Pushing back from the table, Emmett got up and poured himself a cup, then dug around in the refrigerator until he found the half-and-half. “How?”

  “One of us needs to fly out there and see if he’s okay. If he’s not, you can bet we’re next.”

  “You think this has to do with … you know.”

  “There were five of us,” said Vince, forcing his voice to sound steady. Mental pictures, scenes he thought were long forgotten, kept blowing through his head. “Two are dead. Possibly three. Do the math.”

  “So when are you going to leave?”

  “Me? No, no. You’re the one who likes to fly. You need to go.”

  “No way. Not happening.”

  Completely out of patience, Vince lunged at Emmett, grabbed the lapels of his bathrobe, and bent him backward over the sink. “Listen to me, you pathetic piece of shit. We need to check this out now. Today. You’re a pilot. You can jump on any AirNorth flight you want for free. There’s one leaving at two this afternoon. It’s not full, I checked.”

  “I can’t. I have an important meeting—”

  “Cancel it. When you get to Salt Lake City, rent a car and drive out to Park City. It’s about forty miles to his house. Break in if you have to.”

  “I can’t do it.” He shoved Vince away. “I’m not going anywhere near an AirNorth plane.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He refused to make eye contact.

  The sound of the front doorbell stopped the argument.

  “You expecting someone?” asked Vince. He walked with Emmett into the living room and watched as he peered through a crack in the blinds.

  “Shit,” hissed Emmett. “There’s a cop car in the driveway.”

  Vince was glad he’d parked across the street.

  “Two uniformed officers are at the front door.”

  Ducking down, Vince whispered, “Did the police ever talk to you about Rudmann’s murder?”

  “Yeah, briefly. I told them I didn’t know anything, and they went away. So what’s this about?” He knelt down and crawled on all fours into the hallway.

  “Maybe they want to talk to you again.”

  “I can’t do it. I’m too jittery.”

  “Fine. They don’t know you’re home. You car’s in the garage, right?” Hearing a noise at the back of the house, Vince stayed in his crouch and duck-walked into the kitchen. The shadow of a man’s head moved back and forth behind the curtained back-door window.

  After a couple of loud raps, a deep male voice called, “St. Paul police, Mr. Washington. Open up.”

  Returning to the living room, Vince found Emmett lying flat on his stomach. Edging over to the window, he watched as the two cops walked back out to their cruiser. They stood for a few seconds, shielding their eyes from the morning sun, studying the house, talking, pointing, then got back in the car and drove off.

  “I don’t know why the St. Paul police would be interested in you,” said Vince. “Rudmann’s murder happened in Hennepin County.”

  Rolling onto his back, Emmett stared up at the ceiling. “I’m never getting on a plane again.”

  He’d changed the subject so abruptly that Vince was momentarily thrown.

  “I’m quitting. Either that or they’ll fire me.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I’m scared,” he all but shouted.

  “Of flying?” asked Vince. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you. I don’t really care. Bottom line is, you have to fly to Salt Lake City this afternoon. If Crowder’s dead, if someone is after us, we’ve got to nail down what’s going on and then, if we can, figure out a way to protect ourselves. Take a flask of vodka. Breathe deeply. If you need Xanax or Valium, I’ll get it for you. But you have to go.”

  Emmett covered his face with his hands.

  “Emmett? We good? Come on, man. I need you to be strong.”

  After a few seconds, Emmett wiped a hand across his mouth and said, “Get me Crowder’s address.”

  “I have it all written down. You’ll call me as soon as you know anything, right?”

  “You’re a loathsome piece of slime, Vince. A bottom feeder. I wish to God I’d never met you.”

  The feeling was mutual, thought Vince, though since the die had been cast years ago, there was nothing either of them could do about it now.

  22

  Jane led Luis Ramos downstairs to the basement kitchen at the Xanadu Club. Since it was Friday, she assumed Fara would be working. “I want to introduce you to one of our chefs, Fara Jafari. She handles all the staff schedules.”

  “Thank you,” said Luis, removing his baseball cap.

  “She’ll give you all the particulars.”

  “Particulars?”

  “The time you need to show up. You’ll need some nonskid shoes. The ones you’re wearing should be fine. She’ll have you sign a W-4 form. Let you know when and how you’ll be paid.”

  “Yes.”

  Standing at the bottom of the stairs, she shook his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  He nodded, unsmiling.

  “How’s your sister-in-law feeling?”

  “Tired.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Have you heard anything more from Elvio?”

  He studied his fingernails. “I want nothing to do with him.”

  “Because of what he did?”

  “Because of who he is.”

  Jane wasn’t sure what he meant. Before she could ask, a weaselly looking guy in a chef’s coat walked up, an annoyed look on his face. She had no idea who he was.

  “You need to leave. This area is off-limits to customers.”

  She read the name on his jacket. “Well, Don, since I happen to own the place, I think I’ll stay.”

  His expression shifted to wariness. “Own?”

  “Jane Lawless.”

  “Oh, sure. Barry told me about you.” He stuck out his hand. “Don Kleimo. Barry hired me last week.”

  “What happened to Fara?” She ignored the hand and instead concentrated on his dirty jeans.

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “What didn’t?” Jane always insisted that her kitchen staff wear the traditional black-and-white-checked pants.

  “She and Barry had some issues. Not sure what. Anyway, she left and I was hired.”

  Jane felt her anger rising—at Barry, for sure, but even more at herself. She quickly introduced the new chef to Luis, saying that she wanted him put on the schedule as a full-time dishwasher. Don, looking flummoxed by her sudden appearance, didn’t argue.

  After they’d walked off, Jane made a tour of the kitchen. She stuck her head into the walk-in cooler and saw that very few of the bins were labeled and dated. Moving over to the line, she pulled open a couple of the refrigerated drawers. By this time of day, they should have been freshly stocked.

  “Don?” she called, motioning him over.

  He almost ran. “Yeah,” he said, all eagerness to please now that he knew who she was.

  “What do you call this?” She picked up a couple of limp tomato slices and a piece of wilted lettuce.

 
“Garnishes?” he asked weakly.

  “I call it garbage.”

  “Barry wants us to recycle when we can. We stocked the coolers on Wednesday.”

  “Then you stocked it with too much. Get rid of this and replace it.”

  “But it’s almost eleven. We’re about to open.”

  “You serve this crap to our customers and we won’t have any.”

  “Okay, sure. You’re the boss. But I think you should talk to Barry.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll talk to him. I want all the food in the coolers checked, labeled, and dated. You got that?”

  He nodded.

  “What happened with the deep fryer? And with the plumbing problem in the prep kitchen?”

  He brightened. “The prep sink is working great.”

  “What about the deep fryer?”

  “We’re still waiting on that.”

  “Did Barry’s guy ever show?”

  “Yeah, but he said he needed a new part. Might take a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  “Yup.”

  “So you’re limping along with one fryer. I told the guy working the register last night to call Hanson Appliance.”

  “I wasn’t here last night.”

  “Well, you’re here today, Don. Call them now. They’re on the list in your office.”

  “What, I mean, like … what if they fix it and then Barry’s guy comes with the part?”

  “Have him call me. I assume you have my number.”

  His face turning decidedly pink, the chef nodded.

  “Good. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah,” said Don, to her retreating back. “You take care now.”

  Upstairs, Jane searched for the day shift manager. She finally asked one of the bartenders where he was.

  “Um, well, you’ll probably find him in the men’s bathroom.”

  “Okay, where’s the cashier?” Always the second in command.

  “Probably in the same bathroom.”

  “You’re saying—”

  “Like rabbits, Ms. Lawless. Every chance they get.”

  She’d had enough. On the way outside to her car, she gave Barry a call. His secretary, Lisa Tinker, answered.

  “The Restaurant Group. May I help you?”

  “It’s Jane Lawless.”

  “Well, hi, stranger. Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  Don’t rub it in, thought Jane. “Is Barry around?”

  “Sorry, he’s not.”

  “Could you have him call me when he gets back? It’s important.”

  “Sure, but he may not be in until tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s fine. Listen, there’s something else. We hired a woman last fall to work as a sous chef at the Xanadu. Name’s Shanice Williams. Would you still have the forms she filled out when she applied?”

  “Probably.”

  “Could you fax them to me at my home? Is it possible for you to do it today?”

  “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Thanks, Lisa. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, as she sat with Nolan in his hospital room, she was still fuming.

  The doctor had started Nolan on a new antibiotic. Hope was high that this would be the one to knock out the fever and the infection. His face continued to look flushed, although he seemed in better spirits. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked. “Whatever it is?”

  “Nope.”

  “Boy, you are one pissed-off woman.”

  “Pretty much.” She asked him if he was up to a short conversation about the investigation.

  “You have anything new?”

  She told him about the e-mail she and Cordelia had found on DeAndre’s netbook. “I think you should hear it.” As she read it out loud, she watched him closely to see his reaction. Nolan was a stoic. He’d learned to keep his emotions in check through many years on the homicide unit, which made it hard to tell what was going on inside him. Asking direct questions often got her nowhere. This afternoon, however, the heartbreak on his face was unmistakable.

  “Why didn’t he call me?” he asked, balling his hands into fists. “I could have helped him.”

  “Like he said, he was so used to keeping his sister’s existence a secret—”

  “So he calls you when it’s too late. Why you and not me?”

  “Maybe he was ashamed. Or maybe explaining why he’d never told you about Sabrina was too much for him right then. Talking to me was easier.”

  Nolan stared silently at the wall, chewing on his lower lip.

  Jane understood his frustration but needed him to move away from it, if only for a few minutes. She put her question to him. “So what do I do with the netbook?”

  “Call Taylor,” he said, still staring at the wall. “Tell him about the hotel room, the netbook, the Greek word you found, Burt Tatum, everything.”

  “I was hoping I could use it as a bargaining chip. They’ve been investigating the Rudmann murder. They must know something about this copper thing.”

  He shook his head.

  “But if the investigation into DeAndre’s murder is closed—”

  “Let Taylor be the judge of what he wants to do with it.”

  “What if I contacted the police in St. Louis?”

  “No. Handle it through Taylor.”

  Since Nolan had once been a cop, he had a default response, too. “I wish I understood how Elvio Ramos is connected.”

  “That’s important, for sure, but the central question at the moment is, who is Sabrina? We know she works at GaudyLights. We also know she’s probably too old to be one of the black dancers.” Switching his gaze to Jane, he added, “You’ve got to promise me you’ll be extra careful. This is one seriously sick woman. I’m sure what she’s doing is motivated, but that doesn’t make it any less horrific, which is why you need to get this info to the police right away.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “No reason you need to stick around and babysit me.”

  “I thought we could play a game of Scrabble. I brought a board.” She held it up.

  “Go talk to Taylor. My mind’s not sharp enough to beat you at Scrabble. Anyway, Nurse Ratched said I need to sleep.”

  She stood up next to the bed. “Is your leg still numb?”

  “I’m getting a little more feeling back in it. Unfortunately, the more feeling, the more pain.”

  “But they’re giving you pain meds to help with that, right?”

  “I can’t say it helps all that much. Mainly, it just put me in a place where I don’t seem to care.”

  “I could bring you dinner. Some homemade soup?”

  “Maybe when I’m feeling better,” he said, reaching for her hand.

  “I brought your watch, ring, and phone. I put them in the top drawer of your nightstand. Anything else you need?”

  “Call me with updates.”

  “I will.”

  “And Jane? Thanks for being such a good friend.”

  She smiled. “Always.”

  * * *

  Before Jane headed to city hall, she sat in her Mini and phoned Nolan’s sister, giving her the latest news on her brother’s condition. Fannie Lou was upset to hear about the infection, but like everyone else, she remained hopeful that the antibiotics would handle it. When they were finished, Jane phoned Kevante Taylor to let him know she was coming. She felt thwarted—or, more specifically, downright annoyed—by Nolan’s confidence in him. As usual, he didn’t pick up. She was put through to his voice mail, where she left a brief message explaining what she’d found.

  Downtown, the cop at the front desk listened to her explain what she needed, then asked her to sit in one of the chairs while he made a couple of calls. A few minutes later, a plainclothed man who introduced himself as Sergeant Muñoz led her down a hallway to a conference room. Turning on the lights, he invited her to sit down opposite him.

  She pushed the netbook across the table and to
ld him her story. He listened, indicating that the connection between Rudmann and Tatum was something he hadn’t known about.

  “So you’re a licensed PI,” he said, studying her.

  She pulled out her card and handed it over. “We know who murdered Mr. Moore, but we don’t know why. That’s what I’ve been working on. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Kevante Taylor. I’d hoped we could help each other.”

  Muñoz offered a guarded nod. “You did the right thing by bringing this netbook to us.”

  Not an answer. “Once of my concerns has to do with DeAndre’s girlfriend. Someone needs to let her know what happened.”

  “Are you a friend?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll see that it’s taken care of.” He made a move to get up.

  “Wait,” said Jane.

  “Something else?”

  “The note DeAndre sent to his girlfriend talked about a ‘copper.’ Do you have any idea what that might be?”

  He sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lawless, but I’m not able to discuss a case that’s under investigation.”

  So he did know something.

  “Now, if there’s nothing else—”

  He was treating her as if she were a busybody. If Nolan had shown up with the netbook, he wouldn’t have been patted on the head and sent on his way.

  “If I have more questions—”

  “You should direct them to Sergeant Taylor,” said Muñoz. “Sounds like you have a relationship with him.”

  In other words, don’t bother me. She got the message.

  23

  It was a three-hour, nonstop flight from Minneapolis to Salt Lake City. The flight attendant, a woman Emmett had known for many years, offered to seat him in first class. He thanked her but said he preferred the window seat over the wing. He didn’t add that it would give him more to look at—and also less. The jet was an MD-80, a refit, not as new or fast as the one he’d flown in on Monday night.

  Canceling the meeting he’d scheduled with his AirNorth manager had been a breeze. When he called, he learned that AirNorth had already canceled it. They were flying in someone from corporate in Detroit to talk to him tomorrow afternoon. At least he wouldn’t have to wait until Monday.

  Sitting in an airport bar, Emmett had downed a few Scotch and waters to get him through the takeoff. Now that they were in the air, he planned to order two more when the attendant came by. He felt woozy at the margins and intended to keep it that way. Gripping the arms of the seat, he forced his eyes to the right and looked out the window, surveying the wing, the flaps, and the small section of the engine that he could see. He scanned the airspace, his gaze roaming the cloud deck just below them. So far so good. Maybe this was exactly what he needed. You fall off a bicycle, you get back on, right? When the plane hit an air pocket and dropped, he flinched and squeezed his eyes shut, listening helplessly as the first officer, another man he knew, came over the loudspeaker to explain that the ride would be bumpy for the next few minutes and that everyone should remain in their seats with their seat belts fastened.