But despite everything I told them, they still regarded me suspiciously. Two things about Hardin and Madden: one, they don’t find me remotely amusing, and two, they really don’t have a clue as to how to conduct a murder investigation. If they did, would they really consider me a viable suspect? If I had any smarts at all, would I have buried a body in the yard next to mine and then allowed my dog to dig up the body? I think not.
I mentioned to them that Peter Miceli had been in the vicinity that day and that seemed to excite them more than the thought of throwing me in the slammer overnight. I explained to them how the missing hands and feet were a Miceli signature and that the NYPD was working that angle on Ray’s murder.
“And what would Miceli’s motive be in killing Terri Morrison?” Hardin asked, his hound-dog face sad and questioning.
Hmmm. I hadn’t really thought about that. “Give me time. I’m sure I can come up with something,” I said, ever helpful. I’m nothing if not gifted in coming up with murder scenarios and told them so.
Their stony gazes told me that they weren’t impressed.
When they finally released the two of us, Brendan’s mother, Jane, drove both of us back home with a promise to check in on me the next day.
I was worried about the kid; he had become almost catatonic on the short ride home. I was hoping that after a hot meal, a good night’s sleep, and the care of his lovely mother, he would be able to function somewhat normally again. Then again, he was a teenager who had seen a dead and dismembered body. It might be a long time before he felt normal.
The next day, I wandered around in a haze, careful not to look over into the Morrison’s yard, which would remind me again of what I had seen. I spent the better part of the day on the couch trying to wipe the memory of the day before from my mind and was only partially successful. The only time I wasn’t thinking about it was when I was thinking about either who had killed Ray or who had shot me. I was happy when I checked my watch and saw that it was six o’clock and cocktail hour could begin.
There was not enough vodka in the world to erase the memory of seeing Terri, for whom I now had a little sympathy despite our past, in that grave. I thought I would give it a shot, though. I made myself a giant martini with about twenty olives and took it into the living room. Funny thing about finding Terri: I was no longer thinking about Peter Miceli. I had already fixed myself some guacamole from an old avocado I had found along with a plate of cheese and crackers. I was a little catatonic myself. I figured I deserved a quiet night after everything that had happened. And more than one martini.
I hadn’t called Crawford; there hadn’t been time. I was also sure that the DFPD would let the NYPD know about a second murder where the victim was missing their hands and feet. I didn’t expect to hear from Crawford because I knew that he was with his girls and nothing disturbed him when he was spending time with them. However, we hadn’t parted in the warmest way on our last phone call so I kind of expected a quick call to let me know that everything was copacetic between us.
Whenever we did speak, I’d have a lot to tell him. Crawford didn’t know about my meeting with Peter because our phone call had taken place when he was in medias Dumpster. I knew that if I told him about Peter in the diner, he would go off the deep end more so than when I finally got around to telling him that Terri was dead. He wouldn’t have a lot to do with that case, necessarily, unless her hands and feet, like Ray’s, were found in his jurisdiction. But me kissing Peter Miceli? In his world, that would be an international incident in magnitude.
The phone rang. Although I expected to hear Crawford’s voice, it was Jack McManus. If I had thought that the day couldn’t get any more complicated, I was wrong.
“Jack, hi,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. He wasn’t the last person I expected to hear from, but close. Sister Calista was probably the last person I expected to hear from.
“Hi, Alison. I’ve been thinking about you.”
Well, well.
“Kevin tells me you’ve been kind of busy.”
That’s for sure. “He’s right about that,” I agreed.
“How are you doing?”
Good question. “I guess I’m all right.” I took a sip of my drink so as not to go into the sordid details of my diner meal and my evening with the Dobbs Ferry police. I would fill Kevin in when I saw him and leave him to spread the word about my latest brush with murder and mayhem.
“Have you been getting your garbage out on time?” he asked.
Oh, yeah. I had responded to his romantic overtures on our last date by running off to take out the garbage.
“Any chance I could take you to dinner in the next couple of weeks?” He laughed. “I’m guessing that by now you’ve discovered that ‘killier’ isn’t a word.”
Oh, silly Jack. Don’t you know about my boyfriend, his wife, and our torrid, sexless affair? I thought. After all, your brother is Father Kevin, spiritual adviser and master gossip. But I said, “Oh, Jack, I wish I could, but I’m kind of with that guy that we talked about.”
“And that guy doesn’t let you have dinner with a friend?” he asked.
He was smooth. Oh, he would let me, all right, and then torture me about it for the next fifty years. Some things just aren’t worth the agony. Like Wonderbras. And massive amounts of artichoke dip (long story). Instead of giving him my dissertation on sore breasts and flatulence, I tried to laugh it off. “Thanks, Jack, but I think I’ll have to take a pass.”
He tried a different tack. “The Rangers are playing the Flyers next week. We can sit in the good seats again.”
Geez, why did he have to go there? The Rangers-Flyers rivalry was one of the best in the NHL and one of my favorite games to watch during the season. I was exhausted and I didn’t have the energy to run the romantic gauntlet that was Jack McManus and his spectacularly white teeth. “As tempting as that is—”
“Listen, Alison. I have a great time when I’m with you. I like you. I don’t get to meet too many women in my line of work.”
Right. You work with a bunch of professional athletes, all of whom are known for their inability to meet women and their allegiance to their “he-man-women-haters” club code of ethics. “Thanks, Jack. I had a great time with you, too. And under different circumstances, this would be great. But right now, I’m involved.”
He gave it one last shot. “Messier is coming to town next week.”
My inner monologist began to speak, but I told her to shut up. “Jack, I wish I could, but I can’t.”
He sounded disappointed. Who could blame him? It’s not every day you get to meet a tall, almost attractive, out-on-bail, single college professor who loves all things hockey. And if you loved being smack-dab in the middle of murder investigations, I was your girl. “Listen, if things don’t work out, please give me a call.”
I laughed. “By that time, you’ll be married to a super-model and raising your kids, Jack. Hopefully, they’ll get her looks and your brains. But thanks,” I said, leaving out the sarcasm. “I appreciate the call.” I hung the phone up and took another sip of my martini.
Trixie, who had been lounging on her bed in the kitchen, sidled into the living room. After gazing at me longingly for a few seconds, her ears perked up and she started to growl way down in her throat. I wasn’t surprised when there was a knock at the front door a few seconds later. Trixie was cool with people knocking on the back door, but for some reason, not the front. It was just one of those weird dog things that I had given up trying to understand. She shadowed me as I approached the front door. I pulled the curtain of the sidelight to peer out and was surprised to see Crawford standing there.
I opened the door, happy to see him. “Hi,” I said, stepping into the hallway to let him pass.
“I hope this is okay,” he said. “You know, just stopping by.”
“Boy, do I have a lot to tell you.” I launched into my story about Peter Miceli—minus the making-out part—coming to the diner and finishe
d up with how Brendan, aka Bagpipe Kid, found Terri in the grave.
“Missing hands and feet, right?”
I nodded.
He put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Dobbs Ferry called it in to us. What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know, Crawford, but don’t you think Peter Miceli had something to do with this?”
“I would if I actually thought he had a motive for killing her.”
Killjoy. “Well, maybe he does and we just don’t know what it is.”
“Doesn’t it seem like it’s Jackson?”
“Unless we find him somewhere else,” I reminded him. “What if he’s in a shallow grave in another part of town?”
He thought about that for a couple of seconds. “I can ask some questions about this because it’s obviously related to Ray’s case, but I can’t push too much, Alison. This is a total local jurisdiction case.”
“I know,” I said. I thought about asking him more about Ray’s case and the Julie Anne Podowsky angle, but thought better of it after I took a second to take in his appearance. Although his clothes were in their usual state of neat-and-pressed, he had dark circles under his eyes and his five o’clock shadow had entered its eleventh hour. “Are you all right?” I put my hand to his face.
“I’m exhausted,” he said.
I took his hand and brought him into the living room. “Come with me. What can I get you?”
“How about that license plate number?” he asked. When he saw my crestfallen face—I was expecting a beverage request, not police procedure—he added, “And a beer?” He fell onto the couch, clearly out of gas. “You gave the license plate number to Dobbs Ferry PD, too, right? I’m going to run it, too, but they should have this information.”
I nodded. “Yep.” I went into the kitchen, and when I returned, I had a piece of paper with the license plate number and a cold beer. I handed both to him and sat on a chair across from the couch. “Is this a business call?”
He took a long swallow of beer. “Sort of.” He reached over and helped himself to a hefty chipful of guacamole. “This is good,” he said, a little awe in his voice.
“I can cook, you know,” I protested. While that wasn’t exactly true, it sounded good. I didn’t think mashing an avocado in a bowl constituted cooking, but if he was impressed, who was I to argue? I moved from the chair to his lap and put my arms around his neck. “Are we still talking?”
He looked at me, surprised. “Yes. Why?”
I shrugged. “You didn’t sound too happy to hear from me.”
He smiled. “Well, let me recap the last several days.” He began to mimic my voice. “Crawford, it’s raining. Crawford, there’s someone in the garage. Crawford, I’m following a car with an unknown driver at breakneck speed. Crawford, I’m in jail…” He took a sip of beer. “And now you tell me you’ve found another body? I can’t take much more of this,” he said, only half kidding.
“I didn’t actually find the body,” I reminded him. “I was just next to it for a little while.”
“Details.”
I laughed. “Okay, okay.” I kissed him. “Uncle.” I pulled at his shirt and put my hand on his stomach. It had been so long since I had seen him that despite today’s unpleasantness, I wanted to jump his bones. Bad.
He closed his eyes. “As much as it pains me to say this, I have to go home. Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to call Dobbs Ferry PD and have them send a car around?”
“I think they’re already doing that.” I wiggled off his lap and onto the couch next to him. “Do you really have to go?”
He took my hand. “I do. It’s been a long day.”
I suspected that there was something going on, but I decided not to press. “Do you want something to eat before you go?”
He shook his head. “No, I ate.” He paused.
“What’s the matter, Crawford?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, a little too quickly. He stood. “I have to go.”
I stood and walked him to the front door. “Let me know what you find out about that plate number.”
He looked down at me and kissed the top of my head. “I will.”
Uh-oh. The head kiss. I got that sinking feeling in my stomach and swallowed hard. The head kiss usually preceded the kiss-off. I had gotten a lot of head kisses from Ray and we were almost the same height.
Crawford left and, instead of watching him walk to his car like I usually would, I closed the door. I looked at Trixie. “This is not the sort of weekend I want to repeat,” I said, looking into her limpid brown eyes. She walked over and gave my hand a lick and whined slightly. “I made out with Peter Miceli and got a head kiss from Crawford. What’s wrong with this picture?”
She cocked her head again.
I let out a little laugh, almost to prevent myself from bursting into tears. If I kept soliciting advice from a neutered dog and a priest, my love life would be dead in no time flat.
When he got to the stop sign at the end of Alison’s street, Crawford banged his head against the steering wheel in frustration. He resisted the urge to turn his car around and drive back to her house; the look on her face when he left was evidence enough that he had behaved like a moron. Once again.
“‘How about that license plate number?’” he repeated to himself. “Smooth.”
He drove home in a fog, not even excited when he found a parking spot right in front of his building, normally a cause for great rejoicing. His phone trilled on the seat beside him and he picked it up before getting out of the car.
“Crawford.”
“Hey, it’s Kenny James.”
Crawford sat up in his seat. “Kenny, hey. Thanks for calling me back.”
“So, you got another Miceli murder?”
“Or maybe two,” Crawford said, watching the inside of his windshield fog up. “I just want to check something…that hands and feet thing is always Miceli, right?”
“Here’s the thing about the Micelis: they are consistent. Missing hands and feet are a signature Miceli move, and they don’t change method. Ever. Miceli family members and soldiers do everything the same way they’ve been doing it for fifty years. Some old Miceli hacked off some guy’s hands and feet in Brooklyn during World War Two, and that’s how they do it now. I can’t explain it, but I’ve seen two dozen Miceli…” He paused and laughed. “Alleged Miceli murders and they are all the same. They must have a school where they teach these guys messy murder techniques.”
Crawford sat in silence.
“You there?” James asked after a few seconds.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Crawford opened his car door. “We’ve got a couple of other suspects. One’s a girl from St. Thomas who had a relationship with the vic.”
“She come in on her own or did you pick her up?”
“On her own, which is always suspicious. Funny thing is, she’s a fencer.”
“She deals in stolen goods?”
“No, a fencer. You know, the sport?” Crawford clarified.
James started laughing. “I’ve been on the job way too long.” He paused. “Well, you know, she probably knows how to wield swords pretty well.”
“Yeah, that’s what one of the other detectives is thinking. I’m still not sure.”
“Well, good luck, Bobby. Let me know if I can help.”
“Thanks, Kenny. Maybe we can hook up and look over these files? It’d be great to get some fresh eyes on this but even better if those eyes have studied all things Miceli.”
“You got it. I’m out next week, though. Taking the wife to Vegas to renew our wedding vows at some tacky chapel. Not my thing but she’s got her heart set on it.”
“Well, good luck,” Crawford said, chuckling.
He walked inside and slammed the front door, not giving any thought to disturbing Bea. She opened her apartment door and took in his disheveled appearance, the bags under his eyes, and the stubble growing on his cheeks. “Get in here,” she said, and took his arm.
He went into her apartment and fell onto her couch, exhausted. Bea went into the kitchen and came back with a chocolate pudding pie, two spoons, and two cold bottles of beer. She put the pie on the coffee table and handed him a spoon and a beer. “Have some pie.”
The last thing he wanted was pie and a conversation with Bea, but for some reason, he found himself digging into a mound of whipped cream and chocolate pudding and spooning it into his mouth. He washed his first bite down with a swallow of beer and nearly gagged. “I don’t think chocolate pudding pie needs a beer chaser,” he said.
Bea didn’t agree and drained half of her beer in one swallow. “Give it time; it’s an acquired taste.” She took another hunk of pie. “You look like hell. What’s going on?”
Where do I begin? he thought. He was so tired and spent that he found himself pouring his entire life out to Bea. He ended with his visit to Christine’s. “She asked me to dinner. I didn’t think she was going to ask my permission to remarry.”
Bea’s eyes were big behind her bifocals. “She’s getting remarried?”
Crawford leaned back on the couch and took another swig of his beer. “Seems that way.”
“So, that’s good, right?” Bea asked. She toddled off into the kitchen and returned with two more beers, one of which she handed to Bobby. “This is a six-pack conversation, if ever I heard one.”
He drained his first beer and started on the second one. “You know she came by the day after Fred’s wedding and told me to forget about the annulment,” he said.
Bea’s sharp intake of breath told him that she didn’t know. And how would she? He hadn’t told her.
“I thought that was about us. I thought that was about her doing the right thing.” He looked at Bea. “What it really was about was her getting remarried.”
Bea drank her beer in silence. She leaned over and scooped up another piece of pie, deep in thought. “Does it really matter?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Does it really matter why she’s moving on? Does it matter to you?”
That was something he hadn’t considered. He thought for a moment. “Does it?” he asked, not sure.
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