by Lee Driver
She leaned back and glared at the detective. “Well, gee, it’s a tough business but somebody has to do it.” His words stung and now when she didn’t want the damn tear ducts to work, they were pumping away like crazy. She pulled out her compact and checked her reflection, dabbed at the dark smudges under her eyes. “What do you want to know? Make it quick because I need to find Caroline’s grieving parents so I can torment them.” She thought she saw a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
Spagnola read from his notepad. “There was no sign of forced entry so she had to have let the person in. But according to the doorman, there were no pizza deliveries or visitors to your penthouse after Miss Kirby arrived.” He turned to face her, mouth chewing slowly. “Who besides your cleaning lady and, I assume your parents, have a key to your penthouse?”
“What are you saying?” Sheila snapped her compact shut. “That someone was waiting in my penthouse for Caroline?”
The detective blinked slowly. “For a reporter, you’re not very bright. Someone wasn’t waiting for Miss Kirby. The killer was waiting for you. Now again, who else has a key to your penthouse?”
Sheila froze, hoping the shock didn’t show on her face. The only other person who still had a key was Dagger.
CHAPTER 20
October 11, 8:58 a.m.
Marty stood in the doorway connecting their two rooms. The professor was sleeping at the table, his head next to the laptop, glasses sitting cockeyed on his face. Marty rapped on the door. “Hey, you going to sleep all day?”
Sherlock jerked to a sitting position and straightened his glasses. “What time is it?”
Marty stared at the blood stains on Sherlock’s shirt. “What happened?”
The professor rubbed the sleep from his eyes and noticed the bandage had come off of his hand, the cut bleeding again. “Guess maybe I should have had some stitches.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
Pushing away from the table, Sherlock stood and stretched. “Damn nightmares are coming too often. I thought I’d work a little on this family tree, see if I could find something we could use but I keep coming up with zero.”
Marty said, “I spoke with Padre this morning. Want to see the list of homicides from last night?”
“Just give me a number. I don’t think I want to know the gory details.”
Marty set a copy of the Police Log from the previous night on the table. “Nothing that sounds like him. That’s the puzzler. But then he could have picked another town again. After all, he just now started showing up in Cedar Point.”
Sherlock picked up the report. “We can’t lose him, Marty. He should have felt free to kill now that it’s been announced that the boyfriend was arrested for the female cop’s murder and the other was still considered a hit and run.”
“He’s smart, remember.” Marty glanced again at Sherlock’s bloody hand. “He knows to spread himself thin, not draw too much attention to himself.”
“So we need reports from surrounding communities.”
“What does your map say?”
Sherlock brought out a bulletin board and propped it on the couch. Pinned to it was a map of a two-hundred-mile radius. For the past two years Marty had obtained figures of homicides occurring on the actual date of a full moon. If any towns reported violent crimes, he would look at the statistics for the five days prior to see if there was a pattern to the killings. They didn’t rule out obvious killings like drug-related or domestic because it would be just like Paul Addison to disguise his handiwork by making it look like an every-day occurrence in a crime-riddled community.
Yellow pins denoted where killings occurred on the date of a full moon. Red pins referred to the homicides occurring one day prior; blue pins for homicides from two to five days prior. A gold pin in Indianapolis reflected the killings from March 13, 1998, the last date of a full moon on a Friday the thirteenth. It was evident by the pins that the killer had definitely moved away from Indianapolis.
“He’s going in a circle. See the pattern?” Sherlock pointed to the yellow pins surrounded by blue and red pins.
The map showed clusters. One in Chicago, Evanston, then west of Chicago, South Side of Chicago, and then back across the border to Indiana. According to the dates of the homicides, most had occurred in Illinois. Just recently it started to cluster in Northwest Indiana.
“Provided those are all his doing. But we have no way of knowing. What is it you are looking for?” Marty asked.
“A lair.”
“Lair?”
“A home base. He had one in Indianapolis. Remember the farmhouse on the outskirts of Indianapolis?”
Marty nodded. That was where they had found the decomposing body of Paul Addison’s mother.
Sherlock took a red marker and drew a circle from Chesterton along the lake shore to the Illinois border just west of Cedar Point and back to Chesterton. “Now we know it’s in this area. He could travel just about anywhere. But something is keeping him here for now.”
Marty’s gaze traveled to the taupe-colored carpeting near the chair Sherlock had slept in, and the drops of blood now dried. “You better have that hand taken care of,” he said again.
“Any movement, Skizzy?” Dagger sat in front of his monitor talking to Skizzy via computer. He heard the heavy clomping of Simon making his way through the kitchen.
“Nothing. I think I was able to disconnect the Mick from the pin by disengaging the magnet. The infrared sighting revealed it is in a room, not too large either.”
“Padre didn’t get any fingerprints off Riley’s car.” Dagger gave a wave toward Simon and noticed his eagle eyes immediately riveted on the hide-a-bed with its blanket and sheets twisted in knots. “Padre didn’t release any information to the press about the theft from the Evidence Room, so we’ll keep the Micks in operation in case our guy comes back.”
“Will do.”
Dagger clicked the mouse to sign off of the phone call. He turned to Simon and quickly pointed a finger. “Don’t say a word.”
“Not me.” The burly postman rocked back and forth on his thick-soled shoes, drew his gaze back to the make-shift bed.
Dagger felt compelled to explain. “Sara was worried about Einstein last night so she slept down here.”
“Uh huh, uh huh.” His dark eyes twinkled and his thick lips curled up in a smile as he gazed at the Sig Sauer on the loveseat. “And I suppose she was going to shoot him if he didn’t behave.” Dagger picked up the Sig and took it to his bedroom. When he returned he glared at Simon saying, “Wipe that smirk off your face. Nothing happened. She’s been getting crank calls and she was spooked, that’s all.” Dagger folded up the blanket and stripped the sheets off the bed.
“Not that you wanted anything to happen.” Simon smiled now, a large grin lighting up his face, white teeth gleaming against his dark skin.
“She isn’t ready,” Dagger finally said.
“She isn’t ready?” Simon repeated. “What do you think she is? A three-minute egg?”
Dagger shot a gaze toward the second floor. Sara had gone up to take a shower. With a hefty shove, the hide-a-bed folded in. He tossed the cushions back on the couch.
Simon set Dagger’s mail on the corner of his desk. “Well, you better listen closely, because that timer is about to go off in about ten seconds.” He chuckled again and lumbered over to the loveseat, plopped his body down. “Heard the latest?”
Dagger grabbed his glass of juice and sat down on the couch, stretching his legs across the coffee table. He shook the sleep from his head and studied the loveable postman. “No, I obviously haven’t heard since you’re grinning like a damn Cheshire cat.”
“That dizzy blonde ex-girlfriend of yours has a dead body in her fancy penthouse.”
Dagger slowly pulled his legs off the table.
“Yep,” Simon continued, “some co-worker she gave a key to was stabbed to death.”
“Got some good prints here, Joe.” A chunky man resembling Baby Huey s
hined a flashlight on the end table. “Got some on the candy dish, the drawer here, kitchen counter, in the bedroom.”
Detective Spagnola bent over and pointed with a gloved hand at the candy dish. “Do they belong to Sheila Monroe?”
“We’ll know once we get a set of her prints. But there looks to be about four different sets throughout the penthouse. Could be the deceased, Miss Monroe, her cleaning lady, and hopefully, the killer.”
Luther watched his staff carry the body of Catherine Kirby across the foyer and out the door. He walked over to Detective Spagnola as he pulled off his gloves. “Multiple stab wounds. Used one of the kitchen knives left at the scene. Wiped clean.”
“Time of death?”
“Between nine and midnight.”
Spagnola thought for a moment, looked at the items lying by the door. “We can narrow that down even further.” He pointed to the suitcase and laptop by the entrance. “Doorman says she entered at around eight-forty. Looks like she never had a chance to set up her laptop or put her overnight bag in the guest room. Maid says none of the lights were on so the deceased never had a chance to hit the switches. Probably didn’t know where they were. We can be really specific by saying she was nailed the moment she walked through the door.”
CHAPTER 21
October 11, 11:05 a.m.
“Good morning, Mr. Dembroski. How are you?” Padre closed the conference room door and walked over to a counter where a full pot of coffee was sitting on the warming tray. “Coffee?” he asked his guest.
The Hispanic man eyed Sergeant Martinez suspiciously. He had close-set eyes, a low forehead, and teeth with enough space between for an extra set. “Uh, yeah. Black.” Fingers with nails dirty and brown-stained, drummed the table absentmindedly. His ferret eyes scanned the room, settling on the mirror behind Padre’s chair.
“One black coffee coming up.” Padre had a way of disarming suspects with his overly friendly demeanor. He set the coffee in front of the man whose wirey hair looked as if he had lived most of his life under power lines. Padre ran a hand down his tie before sitting down.
“What, no danish?” Manny asked.
“Don’t push your luck,” Padre replied.
Manny sipped his coffee and nodded his approval. He was the product of a Hispanic bar maid and a Polish shoe salesman. He had spent most of his youth as a runaway, hooking up with a carnival and learning the art of pick-pocketing from gypsies. Most of his arrests had been for petty theft. Whether it was lifting wallets from purses or pants pockets, grabbing necklaces off of unsuspecting train riders, or money out of cash drawers, Manny was one of the best. And he had been arrested three times by Officer Lisa Cambridge.
Although the newspapers ran the story of J.D. being arrested for Lisa’s murder, the crime was still being investigated. And Manny’s name was one of the perps J.D. had come up with in his search through Lisa’s case reports.
“How’s it going, Manny?” Padre placed his hands flat on the table. The clean, manicured nails a sharp contrast to Manny’s.
“Fine.” Manny looked around the sparsely furnished room, his gaze settling on an ashtray near the coffee maker. “Can I smoke?”
“Why sure.” Padre pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out for Manny and one for himself. They shared a match. Padre retrieved the ashtray and set it between them.
“Don’t think I’ve ever talked to you before. How come?” Manny took a short drag, like a teenager not used to smoking. He was only in his early twenties but somehow looked older. The carnival had taught him to grow up fast in some ways. In other ways, he should have finished school.
“I work homicide.” A slight smile crossed Padre’s lips as he saw the light bulb flicker in Manny’s head.
“Homicide? That’s like dead people.” The young man pushed back from the table. “Whoa. I don’t do murders.” This time he took a longer drag, picked a piece of tobacco from his bottom lip.
“I know you don’t, or at least you haven’t in the past.” Padre opened a file folder and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.
“No time, ever. That’s one of the ten commandments.”
Padre smiled. “So is ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’.”
“Unless you’re in dire need.”
“I must have missed that part of my teachings.”
“That’s according to Manuel, Chapter Seven, Verse Two.” Manny’s smile was wide, his mouth resembling a picket fence.
“Where were you Monday around three-thirty in the morning?”
“Monday?” Manny lifted his head, eyes searching the ceiling, eyebrows scrunched in thought.
Padre knew this was a waste of time. What was done to Lisa took a powerfully strong man and Manny couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. But he couldn’t rule out the fact that Manny might have hired someone. But could he be that pissed at being arrested for petty theft? Lisa had sent him to prison for a year. He was out on good behavior in three months. Not enough to hold a grudge. J.D. had come up with a short list of possibles. None of Lisa’s arrests were serving major time. There were no threats to her in the courtroom by the suspect being dragged away.
“Oh, yeah. I was in church, three-thirty mass.” A cocky grin spread across his face. But when Padre reached across the table and grabbed him by the front of his Grateful Dead tee shirt and hauled him halfway across the table, Manny’s eyes grew as wide as a child’s at Christmas.
“POLICE BRUTALITY, POLICE BRUTALITY,” Manny screamed.
“Did you forget the commandment, ‘Thou Shalt Not Lie?’ You can burn in hell, Manny. But before you get there, I get my ten minutes with you.” Padre tightened his grip for several seconds while the skinny guy squinted as if preparing for a deadly blow. Padre released him and Manny sank back against the wooden slats of the chair.
“I was asleep, okay?” He straightened his shirt, moved his shoulders back and forth, making sure all his body parts were still intact. “I picked up a girl at Chico’s Bar. She spent the night and no, I don’t know her name other than Butterfly.”
“Butterfly?” Could only be a hooker, Padre thought. “How much did you pay her?”
Manny seemed to chew that one a bit, hang his head. “Twenty bucks. You think a guy with my looks is gonna get a self-respecting girl? No. I gotta pay. But she was nice, you know? Didn’t make fun of my looks, much less my name.” He took another sip of his coffee, long drag off the cigarette before smashing the butt into the ashtray.
“When is the last time you saw Officer Lisa Cambridge?”
Manny stared for several seconds at the mirror behind Padre, cocked his head. “This what it’s about? I thought they caught the killer.”
“May have had help.”
“Help? You see the size of that dude?” He finished his coffee and dumped the contents of the ashtray into it. Even swept ashes off the table into the cup. Padre half expected him to offer to vacuum. “No. I have never killed anyone in my life.” He placed his hand on an imaginary bible and raised the other. “As God is my witness.”
“Well, that was enlightening.” Chief Wozniak entered Padre’s office having witnessed the interview with Manny from behind the one-way mirror.
“As much as we would like to find a logical killer, we have just about exhausted our list of logical suspects.” Padre tossed Manny’s case folder on the desk. “I can understand your hesitancy to believe Sergeant Flynn and Professor Sherlock, but right now everything is pointing to an illogical suspect.”
Wozniak sank into the chair in front of Padre’s desk. “The department put out a press release asking if anyone was driving on Camden Parkway that night but no one has come forward.”
Padre hung his suit coat on the back of his chair. There weren’t any plaques on his walls or anniversary paperweights on his desk. He personally didn’t like those little snippets of ‘atta boys’ or self-boasting trivia. That wasn’t him. He sat down and leaned back, hands clasped across his waist.
“I d
on’t have to tell you,” Wozniak started, “that Lisa’s murder is top priority. I can’t let J.D. stew for too long. Alderman Siler is screaming racism already. Once she gets her people behind her, she’ll have this town in turmoil.”
“Let’s not forget Lou Riley.”
“No, Lou was a good guy. Couldn’t wait for retirement. Did you investigate that State Line Laundry?”
“All the employees check out. My guess is Riley’s killer stole one of the uniforms. The owner admits if some are torn and irreparable, they just toss them.”
“At least we know there wasn’t anything wrong with that new scanner system. It was human error. The night shift clerk actually believed AAA had moved our deliveries to six o’clock. Never double-checked with the day shift.”
“Don’t you think two weeks off was a little harsh?”
“She should have been fired. Lets a vendor in with a wave, no verification of I.D. And now we have one dead officer. Could have been avoided, Martinez.”
Padre spent his lunch time visiting J.D. The young cop was sitting on the floor with the Doberman in his lap. Max’s chin was on J.D.’s knee and he was accepting the neck scratching with mild interest.
“How’s he doing?” Padre asked.
“Better.” He leaned closer to the Doberman’s ear. “Aren’t you, Max? You’re doing much better.” J.D. slipped Max off of his lap and the dog curled up on the rug, his eyes blinking lazily.
“He still drugged up?”
“A little.” J.D. stuck a mitt-sized hand at the sergeant and they shook. “Anything?”
“Wish I had something to give you.” Padre eyed the furnishings in the spacious suite. Subdued colors, a lot of wood, and heavy on the silk plants. He sat down at the table in the kitchenette and accepted a glass of iced tea.