by Frank Zafiro
“What’s this about?” Jeri demanded.
“You mind if I come in?”
Jeri hesitated, then opened the door wider. Katie stepped inside. Her gaze swept the living room. It was decorated with crystal figurines and New Age paintings. A bright white loveseat dominated the room.
“Where is he?” Katie asked.
“Who?”
Katie turned to her and gave her a tight smile. “Let’s not play games, Jeri. Where’s your boss?”
“At home, I imagine.” She crossed her arms and affected a haughty demeanor. “It is Christmas.”
“No, he’s here,” Katie said. “Now why don’t you go get him and let’s work things out.”
Jeri paused, returning Katie’s stare. The women engaged in a brief battle of wills before Jeri looked away with a sneer. Then she stomped into the bedroom. Katie heard her speak in a muffled voice. A few moments later, she emerged from the bedroom with Burnwell in tow. The man gave Katie a sheepish look.
“Detective. Uh, any news on the case?” Katie pointed to the white couch. Burnwell sat down meekly. Jeri snorted at them both and plopped onto the couch next to him, crossing her arms and legs in a huff.
“Let me tell you what I know, Mr. Burnwell.” Katie fixed him with a matter-of-fact stare. “For starters, I know that you have been having an affair with Jeri here for the better part of a year.”
“It’s not an affair,” Jeri snapped. “We’re in love.”
Katie ignored her. “I also know that you didn’t come down to the office to get presents for your wife. She opened them earlier this morning.”
Burnwell opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.
“You want to tell me what you came down to the office for, Mr. Burnwell?”
“I…came to get a little cash.”
“From the safe.”
He nodded glumly. “I was going to take Jeri to a nice restaurant for Christmas. And I had to pick up her presents, too.”
Jeri drew her hair back to display a pair of diamond earrings. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Katie continued to ignore her. “What did you do with the rest of the money?”
Burnwell looked confused. “The rest? I don’t understand.”
“I think you do. What did you do with the rest of the money from the safe?”
Burnwell shook his head. “There was no money. It was gone.”
“Gone?”
Jeri smacked her gum and turned to Burnwell. “She’s not very smart for a detective.”
Burnwell cleared his throat. “All the money was already gone when I got there.”
Katie’s eyes bored into him. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“Would you take a polygraph exam?”
“Of course.”
“How about you?” Katie asked Jeri.
The blond woman looked at Katie with a put-upon expression. “A what?”
“A lie detector,” Burnwell told her.
Jeri shrugged and smacked her gum again. “Sure. Why not?”
Katie took a deep breath and sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked Burnwell.
Burnwell looked over at Jeri. The blond woman sat bouncing her leg over her knee and smacking her gum impatiently. Burnwell looked back at Katie and shrugged.
“Discretion?” he said in a meek voice.
Carla Stehr opened the door with a pleasant hello. “Did you find Jeri at her mother’s house?” she asked Katie when they’d settled at the dining room table again.
Katie shook her head. “No. But I found Jeri.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“I found out everything, actually.”
“Good,” Carla repeated.
“You need to tell me where the money is, Carla.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You do,” Katie said. “Unfortunately, you do.”
Carla took on a miffed expression. “It’s not very polite to accuse people, detective. Particularly on Christmas. Now, perhaps—”
“You know there’s an ATM across the street from the office?”
Carla paused. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I’ve used it once or twice.”
“You know where that camera points?”
Carla didn’t answer.
“It points right at the front of the business. When I go to the bank tomorrow and pull the tape from that camera, you know what I’ll see?” Katie leaned forward. “I’ll see you pull up in your car and go inside. I’ll see you leave with a bag of some kind.”
“No,” Carla whispered.
“Yes, I will,” Katie told her. “And if I search your house right now, I will find that bag in your closet or in the attic or maybe in the laundry room. And in your bedroom, I’ll find your suitcase on the bed, half-packed. Won’t I, Carla?”
The older woman didn’t reply.
Katie continued. “After I do all of those things, it doesn’t much matter what you say or do. It does matter now, though. It matters if you’re honest about things. It matters if you return the money.”
Carla brought her shaking fingers to her face and bowed her head.
“Why’d you do it, Carla?”
Carla’s shoulders hitched and she let out a whimper.
“Tell me,” Katie urged.
Carla looked up at her, tears filling her eyes. “All that money,” she whispered. “Every year, all that money. All that cash. A lot more than he tells anyone. I know he skims bunches of it before it goes to the bank. And what he doesn’t skim, he keeps for himself as income. Spends it on his trophy wife and the trophy girlfriend. Big, extravagant gifts, I’m sure.”
An image of Jeri’s diamond earrings flashed through Katie’s mind.
“Do you know what he got me this year?” Carla asked. She pointed to the kitchen counter at a bottle of wine. “Twenty dollars from the grocery store, I’d bet. And I don’t even drink alcohol.”
“So he doesn’t appreciate you?”
Carla laughed and wiped her tears away. “Oh, honey, he doesn’t even hardly know me. And he only appreciates one thing about women. Do you think he puts any of that money into a retirement fund for any of us?”
“Probably not.”
“I’m all alone,” Carla told her. “It’s just me. Do you know what it’s like to be alone?”
“I do.” Katie swallowed. “So you took the money.”
Carla nodded. “It was going to be my retirement. It’s not like I can count on Social Security.”
Katie booked Carla into jail without incident. Everyone in the booking area, corrections officers and criminals alike, looked at Katie like she was a giant scrooge for booking an old woman into jail on Christmas. She was glad to get out of there.
She logged the money onto the property book. She could have returned the money to Burnwell with a property receipt, but she decided to make him come down to the property room the next day so it could be counted out for him. It was evidence, after all, and she didn’t like the idea of him using the money for an expensive dinner with Jeri. Let him use a credit card.
Back at her desk, Katie typed her report. After all of her work, she was surprised at how brief the actual narrative looked. She printed it off and put it in a file. By the time she finished, it was seven-thirty. Detective Bill Lindsay had arrived at six and was busy whistling off-key Christmas songs at his own desk.
Katie picked up the phone and dialed. Her mother picked up on the fourth ring.
“Mom?”
“Is that Kay-die?” her mother slurred.
“It’s me,” Katie said quietly, not wanting Lindsay to hear. “I just wanted to wish you merry Christmas.”
Her mother barked out a laugh. “Oh, it’s merry all right. Merry, merry, merry. All by my merry self.”
“I’m sorry I had to work.”
“Your whole life is sorry,” came the slurred accusation.
“You don’t mean that, Mom.”
“What do you know
what I mean?” she said stubbornly.
Katie heard her sip from a glass. Or maybe a bottle. “I’ll catch a flight tomorrow,” she promised.
“Don’t bother yourself,” her mother muttered and hung up the phone.
Katie lowered the receiver onto the cradle. Tears sprang up in her eyes. Lindsay whistled, butchering “Jingle Bells.”
Without thinking, Katie picked up the phone and dialed Tower’s number. He answered on the second ring.
“John? It’s Katie.”
“Hey, girl. Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks.”
“You still at work?”
“Just finishing up.”
“Who’s the idiot whistling in the background?”
“Lindsay.”
Tower chuckled. “I should’ve guessed.”
“Yeah. Listen, John…what are you up to?”
“Nothing much. Just reading a little. Digesting Christmas dinner. Why?”
Katie didn’t answer right away, her nerve failing.
Tower waited a moment, then asked, “You eat yet?”
“No,” Katie admitted.
“Come over,” Tower said. “I’ll warm you something up.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. You remember where I live?”
“Yeah. You had the unit barbeque there this summer.”
“All right. Then I’ll see you soon.”
Katie nodded. “See you soon.”
She hung up the phone and stared at it. Then she wiped away her tears, grabbed her jacket, and left her desk behind.
Finch and Elias
These two are the investigative equivalent of Sully and Battaglia, only more refined. Finch, in particular, is more reserved and business-like. Elias has the attitude.
You might be confused when they don’t appear in “Be My Santa Baby.” Be patient. It makes sense by the time you read “Finch and Elias.” The first story developed out of the image of a fake Santa beard stuck in the hammer of the revolver, and grew from that. Then I thought it would be a fun exercise to have these two investigate the events that occurred in “Be My Santa Baby.” It was for me. Hopefully you’ll dig it, too.
Tower appears in “Finch and Elias” and “Core Issue,” sporting his trademark Styrofoam cup full of coffee. If Elias has attitude, then it is fair to say that Tower is a flat out smartass, and growing more cynical by the day. By the time the reader gets a chance to hear from him as the lead in a yet-unpublished novel, Some Degree of Murder, Tower has grown pretty dark.
Here, though, he provides more of a proxy for the reader, discovering things about this case as the reader does, and reacting.
Last note—I bear no ill will toward counselors or psychologists.
“The Bastard Mummy” is a straightforward whodunit/howdunit mystery. This is typical of Finch and Elias tales, though it isn’t typical of most Frank Zafiro stories. For some reason, I like trying to solve mysteries with these two guys. Can you blame me?
“The Worst Door” was a 2006 Derringer Award Finalist. It is also a very personal story in some ways. No, these events never happened to me, but these emotions did. For that reason, it remains one of my most favorite short stories (of my own stories, at least) mine and was almost the title of this collection.
Be My Santa Baby
I cocked the hammer and it got tangled up in the fake beard.
“Shit!” I muttered and struggled to pull the white material free. That’s when I noticed it was caught in the cylinder, too.
“Shit!” I said again.
The cashier stared at the gun. A smile touched the corners of his mouth and some of the fear in his eyes melted away.
My partner, Jake, leaned slightly over to me. “What’s the matter, Kenny?” he asked.
“Fucking beard is all caught up in the gun.”
“What?”
I looked over at him, all done up in the same ridiculous red and white costume I was in, complete with stocking hat and fluffy white beard. Goddamn beard.
A nervous chuckle escaped the cashier’s lips. I turned back to him and jabbed the barrel of the revolver in his direction. The beard pulled away from my face with each punctuated motion.
“You shut the fuck up,” I told him. “You think this gun won’t work just ‘cause there’s a little bit of beard tangled up in it?”
The cashier was forty and thin enough to look unhealthy. He clenched his narrow jaw and turned the corners of his mouth down, but I could see his eyes were still dancing with laughter.
“You wanna die, Mr. Funny Man?” I asked, poking the barrel at him repeatedly and making my beard dance.
He shook his head. His greasy hair flopped from side to side, but his eyes refused to lose their humor.
“Take it easy,” Jake said. “Just get the money.”
“You heard him, Chuckles,” I said to the cashier. “Empty the register.”
He may have had laughing eyes, but he was no dummy. He punched a button and the cash drawer opened with an anemic ding.
“Let’s go!” I barked, poking my gun barrel at him. “Faster!”
The cashier’s hands were shaking as he drew out the bills from the register with a practiced motion.
“In a bag,” Jake said over his shoulder. He was watching the door for other customers or cops.
Without pause, the cashier jammed the wad of cash into a MI-T Mart bag and held it out to me. I snatched it from his hand and leaned in, touching the end of the gun barrel to the tip of his nose. That sapped most of the laughter out of his greasy little eyes.
“Not so funny now, is it?” I said.
The cashier made shuddering shaking motions with his head.
“Let’s go,” Jake grunted at me.
I nudged the cashier backward with a slight push. Before I turned away, I winked at him. “Ho-ho-ho, motherfucker.”
The old Dodge was running when we hopped in, but the heater was broken and blew only cold air.
“Punch it!” Jake told Charmaine from the back seat, slamming his door.
The big-bodied woman wrinkled her nose at him. “You got the shit?”
“Drive, bitch,” Jake said. “I got the fucking money.”
Char clenched her jaw, but nodded at him, her heavy black curls bobbing and bouncing against her shoulders. Then she turned her attention ahead, put the car in gear and drove calmly northbound.
“Not too fast, neither,” Jake told her.
“I know how to drive a getaway car, motherfucker,” she snapped.
I dropped my hand onto her meaty thigh and she shot me a glance. It was a hard look at first, but it softened after a moment and then she turned forward.
“Y’all are some heavy breathin’ bastards,” she muttered, wiping away the foggy condensation on the inside of the windshield.
I rolled down my window to clear the fog.
“That’s freezing,” Jake said. “Roll it back up.”
I looked back at him. He was already almost out of his Santa suit, shrugging off the suspenders and pulling the floppy pants down over his hips.
He looked back at me. “What’s your problem? Roll up that window and get that Santa shit off.”
I left the window down, but pulled off the red hat and the beard.
“Leave on the hat,” Char cooed. “It’s sexy.”
“It all goes in the trash,” Jake insisted.
Char ignored him, winked and blew me a kiss with her thick lips. I tucked the hat under the front seat and concentrated on tearing the little white strands of beard out of the hammer and the cylinder of my revolver.
“Whachoo doin’, sugah?” Char asked me.
“Unfucking his gun,” Jake said.
I ignored him and tore at the stringy white stuff. “Damn beard,” I muttered.
We drove north for ten minutes. I managed to get some more of the beard out of the gun before we pulled into the parking lot behind Costco.
“Why aren’t you done yet?” Jake barked at me.
“I should leave his ass right here,” Char murmured, more to herself than to me.
I glanced into the back seat and saw that he had taken the bag of money with him. I thought about telling Char that, but she kept the car in park until he returned and clambered back into the rear seat again, so I just kept quiet.
“Go,” Jake ordered her.
“Go?” she repeated. “Go fuck yourself.”
She put the car in gear, though, and headed back out onto the arterial.
The rustling sound of the plastic bag came from the back seat. I looked over my shoulder and saw Jake counting out the money from the MI-T Mart.
“How much?”
He ignored me and continued to count. When he’d finished, he sighed. “Shit. One hundred and eighteen bucks.”
“That’s it?”
“I knew we should’ve made that skinny bastard open the safe,” he said.
Char shook her head. “They can’t. It’s on a timer. Once they put money in, it don’t come out ‘til the manager gets there in the morning.”
Jake stared at Char. I knew he wanted to rip into her. He wanted to because she used to be his girl and now she was mine. He wanted to because she didn’t show him no respect, too. But mostly, he wanted to rip her because she was right. She used to work at one of those stores and she knew when the cash register would be the fullest, right after two in the morning. And, Jake knew, she was right about the timers on the safe.
“So what’s one eighteen divided by three?” I asked.
Jake turned his gaze to me and snorted. “Fifty-nine bucks.”
I nodded, then stopped and did the math. “That’s not right.”
“That’s because we’re not splitting it three ways. We’re splitting it two ways.”
I thought for a frantic second that he and Char were back together and that they were going to whack me over my cut of this measly take. But when I looked at Char, she looked just as confused as I was and a little pissed.