by Rick Blechta
“I can’t believe this happened,” said the heavyset, long-haired one as he sat down. His earlier bravado was gone, probably because he lacked an audience.
“Name?”
“Mike Master.”
“So how long you been in the band, Mikey?” Pratt asked.
Behind the kid, the patrolman taking notes smirked.
“Six months. They asked me to join because they needed a better singer.”
“And are you a better singer?”
“Our fans seem to think so.”
“So your little band has a lot of fans?”
Pratt was baiting the kid. A bit of anger might cause him to drop his guard.
“If we play our cards right, we’ll get a big recording contract. Everyone says so.”
Pratt led him through the standard line of questioning. Did he know anything? What had Jamie Clark said? Where was he when the murder occurred? How had Clark behaved that evening?
Master knew nothing—or wasn’t about to give up his fellow band member.
The only new thing drummer Jonny Fedrano could add was that Clark had told him before the first set that his knife was missing. Lewis was still alive at that point. Pratt wondered if it was just to set up an alibi.
Bassist Skip Blair was more forthcoming.
“Jamie is innocent! Sure he talks big, but I’ve known him since we were ten. He’d never hurt anyone, I swear it!”
“Has Jamie ever been involved in a fight?”
“Never that I’ve seen.”
“That sounds like a cop-out.”
“It’s not, man! Okay? He’s my bro.”
Pratt wondered what this punk would have said if he’d told him, “No. He’s not your bro. My partner is actually Jamie’s bro. What do you think of that?” But all he said was, “Look, I’m at least marginally on Jamie’s side. Why don’t you help me?”
The kid glared at him, making it clear there wouldn’t be help.
Could it mean Jamie’s band members also thought he was guilty?
About quarter to three, Pratt was rubbing his tired eyes when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was one of the crime scene techs.
“Got something to show you downstairs.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
Pratt nearly told the guy off, but that seemed like too much effort, so he just followed along.
Downstairs, the office was now almost empty. Only the desk, the chair and a photocopy machine remained. The piles of paper, bar supplies and other junk had all been removed and stacked neatly outside.
“So what do you have?” Pratt asked irritably.
“It was underneath the photocopier. I knew we should have looked there first instead of wasting our time with the other junk.”
“Show me, please.”
The other tech rolled the copier away and there it was: a rather long switchblade with a carved wooden handle and brass hardware. It was just as Jamie Clark’s knife had been described to Pratt by his band members. The blade was still extended.
“There’s blood on it,” one of the techs said unnecessarily.
Chapter Four
Pratt didn’t drag his sorry butt into the squad room until nearly ten the next morning.
By that time, Jamie Clark had been booked for murder and Harry Gordon was strutting around like a hero. Gordon’s partner, Snow, was still sick at home, so Pratt remained on the case.
Ellis was at his desk working the phones for a case they were just finishing up. His desk faced his partner’s, and as Pratt sat, Ellis raised his eyebrows in a question.
“Care for a coffee?” the older man asked.
Ellis got off the phone. “Sure. I need to stretch my legs.”
The cafeteria was in the basement. They remained silent until they were alone in a far corner of the room.
“Late night?” Ellis asked.
“Got home at four. I’m exhausted.”
“So, ah, what did you find out?”
Pratt took a sip of coffee. “Your half brother has been arrested and charged with murder. A switchblade that might be his was found in Lewis’s office early this morning, under a photocopier. We believe it’s the murder weapon.”
Ellis sagged. “Jesus Christ…”
“That’s not all. Jamie was not quiet about his dislike of the murder victim. The club manager who found Lewis’s body confirmed he’d witnessed an earlier argument between the two. So did two other employees.”
“What was it about?”
Pratt grimaced over a large sip of coffee.
“Money, what else? Lewis actually wanted the band to pay to play there.”
“That’s the way it’s done in some of the top clubs. Bands are willing to pay to play, or at least play for nothing, just to be seen.”
“Unbelievable! Are they nuts?”
“No. Just desperate. Did you find out anything that might help Jamie?”
“David,” Pratt said. Using his partner’s first name was not something he often did. “This is where we stop. You can’t know anything about this case. You can’t come near it. Understand me? If you’re really smart, you’ll go right upstairs, tell McDonnell about your relationship to Jamie Clark and asked to be moved to another department for the duration.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do more than think.” Pratt looked at his watch. “Got to go. Gordon and I are meeting with the old man and someone from the DA’s office.”
As he rose, Ellis grabbed his arm.
“Keep me in the loop, please.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
Pratt grabbed his half-finished coffee and headed for the door. Ellis sat there for a minute longer, thinking that it was pretty funny Pratt called McDonnell “the old man” when Pratt was actually five years older than their captain.
Pratt arrived last. Captain McDonnell and Gordon were already seated at the conference table with another man and woman. The assistant DA was a new face, still green if Pratt was any judge, and he’d brought a secretary or colleague of some sort.
“How nice of you to join us, Mervin,” Gordon said with a smirk.
Everyone in homicide knew Pratt didn’t like his given name, and most never used it. Gordon made sure he did—whenever he got the chance.
“Pratt,” the captain said, “this is Dan Cheevers. He’s going to prosecute the case. Gordon has been filling us in on the murder suspect. What have you got by way of background?”
Pratt put on his reading glasses. “Not a whole lot. By the time I arrived, all the patrons had left the club. Only the bar’s staff and the band remained. Oh, and the girlfriend of the suspect and two of her friends.”
“They were gone when I got there,” Gordon added defensively. “Ran like rats deserting a sinking ship. Probably half had drugs on them, if I know the average clubgoer.”
Pratt ignored the comment. “We interviewed all staff members and the band. I also interviewed Clark’s girlfriend, Carolyn Tucci. Around three AM, the crime tech guys discovered what we believe might be the murder weapon. Clark had a similar knife that he said had gone missing earlier yesterday evening.”
Gordon interrupted. “It is the murder weapon, dammit! Can’t you see Clark’s guilty as sin, Pratt?”
Pratt raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, he’s confessed? I hadn’t heard.”
“Enough!” McDonnell barked. He looked at Pratt. “I want this wrapped up fast. We’ve looked bad in the club district the past few months.” Then his ire shifted to Gordon. “But I also want this done right. We can’t afford a screwup. Pratt and Gordon, you’re on this until further notice. Gordon’s the lead. Got that?”
“What about Snow?” Gordon asked. He’s not going to be out sick for long.”
“He can team up with Pratt’s partner, Ellis.”
Cheevers finally spoke up.
“When will forensics report on the knife? This case is weak unless we can tie that knife to the kid.”
“Relax,” said Gordon. “Pratt, did you find anyone who would swear that Clark was in the washroom the whole time between sets as he claims? The time when Lewis was stabbed to death?”
Pratt knew better than to tell him the girlfriend, Tucci, had told Pratt precisely that. She swore Clark had spent the entire break in the men’s room because he felt ill. Pratt couldn’t begin to imagine Gordon’s response if he said that out loud.
Chapter Five
Ellis was out when Pratt got back to his desk. He hoped the kid had finally gotten the message that he had to stay far away on this one. It would end badly for everyone if he didn’t.
Pratt wanted to study photos of the body. None had arrived yet. As he reached for his phone, its loud ring caused him to jump. His nerves always got jangly when he’d had too little sleep, and that irritated him.
The voice at the other end had a buzzsaw quality that made him wince. “Detective Pratt?”
“Yes.”
“Finally! I have been sent from person to person trying to find someone who could tell me about my husband’s…death.”
“And you are?”
“Margerie Lewis, the wife of…the widow of Joseph Lewis. Are you the one heading the investigation of my husband’s death?”
“No, ma’am, but I am working on the case.”
“Can you tell me anything? The officer who was sent to my home last night couldn’t tell me much.”
This call should have been handled by Gordon, but he was over at forensics, bugging them about the knife. He seemed to think pissing people off would get him quicker results.
“There isn’t a whole lot to tell you at this point.”
“The TV is saying someone has been arrested.”
“That’s true.”
“And did he stab Joe to death?”
Pratt squeezed his eyes shut. Time to take one for the team.
“We have strong reasons to believe that.”
The Widow Lewis’s next question astounded him. “When can The Boom Room reopen?”
He would have expected an emotional outburst along the lines of “Fry the bastard!” or possibly some weeping. After all, she’d just lost her husband. Frankly, she sounded only mildly irritated.
“May I come over and speak with you?” he asked.
“I want you to answer my question.”
“I have no answer at this time. Perhaps by the time I get there, I will know more.”
“As you can imagine, I’m very busy today. When would you come?”
“I can be there within the hour.”
“Fine. Suit yourself—if it will help speed things up.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Lewis. See you shortly.”
Pratt sat drumming his fingers on his desk after hanging up the phone. Something wasn’t right here.
Before heading out to the Lewis house, Pratt got a promise from forensics that the crime scene photos would be on his desk by midafternoon. He hated looking at them on a computer screen.
Margerie Lewis obviously cared very much about the way she looked. Close to Pratt’s age—meaning pushing fifty-five—the blonde (from a bottle) answered her door dressed as if she was going out on the town. She wore a simple black dress with a colorful scarf around her neck. She did not look like a newly minted widow.
“Now, what can you tell me about my husband’s murder?” she asked, sitting primly on the sofa.
Pratt got out his notebook and pen.
“We have a suspect in custody, and I believe he has been formally charged or will be shortly.”
“Is that the boy from the band?”
“Yes, ma’am. How did you know that? It hasn’t been released to the press yet.”
“I spoke to the bar manager this morning. He told me.”
The detective filed that information away. Who had called whom? he wondered.
“Why are you so interested in talking to me, detective?” she continued. “You’ve already got your murderer.”
“Just doing my job.” Pratt crossed one leg over the other so he could write more easily. “Did your husband ever talk to you about the club?”
Margerie rolled her eyes. “All the time. I think he cared more about that dump than he did about me.”
“Did he have trouble with people in the past?”
“Do you mean did he get along with people?”
“Well, yes.”
“He was a good businessman. That sometimes meant lowering the boom on an employee or supplier. Bartenders and waitresses will rob you blind if you don’t watch them constantly. Suppliers will try to rip you off.”
“Did he currently have any problem employees?”
She paused to think. “Joe didn’t mention anyone recently.”
Twenty minutes later, Pratt had poked around enough with his questions to know there was something not being said.
“You asked on the phone when the club could be reopened and—”
“I need to have that dump open, detective. I will be selling it.” She tried a smile. “Kids are a fickle lot. They’ll find someplace else to go if The Boom Room stays shut too long—and they won’t come back. I need a buyer while it’s hot.”
“Right now it’s an active crime scene. We’re working as fast as we can.”
Mrs. Lewis didn’t look happy. “I’m sure you are.”
Pratt closed his notebook and rose to his feet. Putting on his coat, he asked, “Tell me, is it hard to sell a nightclub?”
“I hope not. I have zero interest in owning one.”
I’ll just bet you don’t, Pratt thought as he started his car to head back downtown.
It might be well worth the effort to dig around in the Lewis family closet. He’d never met a widow who had appeared less broken up over her husband’s murder.
Chapter Six
Back at the office, Pratt got busy writing up his notes from the previous evening. Every detective he’d ever worked with hated paperwork, but he found it soothing—and useful. Many times in the past he’d had breakthroughs while organizing his thoughts for the record.
McDonnell startled Pratt when he dropped a manila envelope on his desk. “These came for you while you were out.” He turned on his heel and went back to his office, clearly not happy about something.
The eight-by-ten crime scene photos were crisp and clear. Pratt thumbed through them. He was down to the last half dozen before he found what he was looking for.
Pratt knew the trick was not to simply look. The trick was to see. Last night he hadn’t known enough when he’d glanced into that office. He’d looked at things, sure, but he hadn’t understood what they might mean. It wasn’t until this morning that it had struck him. Something about Lewis’s body was odd. Three of the photos told the story.
“What you looking at?” It was Ellis, back from wherever he’d gotten off to.
Pratt turned the photos over. “You know what they are.”
His partner sat down, took out his laptop and opened it. “Relax. I didn’t see a thing.”
“Where have you been?”
Ellis looked at him for a long moment. “Doing some thinking.”
“And?”
He sighed. “I’ve told the captain I need time off to be with my family. He’s going to see what he can do.”
“You’ve made the right decision, son. I was going to tell McDonnell if you didn’t.”
“He told me you’re staying on the case even after Snow comes back.”
“That surprised me. He knows how much Gordon and I dislike each other.”
“Maybe he wants your brains with Flash’s brawn.”
Pratt smiled, but it was tight. “He sort of said that.”
“Can I ask you one thing about the case?”
“Maybe…”
“Mom and Dad spoke to Jamie this morning for just a moment in court. He swears he didn’t do it. Sure, he was sore at Lewis, but he was just sounding off.”
“Every murderer claims they’re innocent.
You know that.”
“Mom says she can see in his eyes Jamie’s telling the truth.”
“That should really convince a jury.”
“My mother is a realist. She’s also very strong. She wouldn’t shy away from the truth like most people. May I ask you my question?”
“Sure.”
“Gut-level response: do you think Jamie murdered Lewis?”
Ellis already had his mentor pegged. He knew when something was bothering Pratt. They sat for a good half minute before the older man spoke.
“We shouldn’t talk here.”
There was a coffeehouse and juice bar they both liked a few blocks from headquarters. For Pratt, it was the coffee and chocolate-chip cookies. For Ellis, the smoothies. Not many cops used the place.
They’d barely sat down when Ellis asked, “So what do you have?”
Pratt looked at his young partner carefully, trying to read him. He had a lot of regard for the young man. The kid showed great instincts and, more important, was willing to put up with Pratt’s moodiness.
They were both on dangerous ground. At this stage, Pratt didn’t give a damn if he got shown the door. He had a good pension and not much he wanted to spend it on. He’d miss the work, but the end was in sight anyway.
Ellis, on the other hand, was just starting out. He had a career ahead of him. Possibly a brilliant career. There was a young wife too, and, no doubt, children on the horizon.
He took a deep breath.
“All right, David, there is something bothering me about the case.”
Pratt had stuffed the three photos of interest into the envelope as they’d left. He took his time laying them out on the small table, studying them once again. Then he turned them one by one to face Ellis.
“What do you notice?”
Knowing this teacher/student game very well, Ellis took his time.
“There isn’t much blood?”