by Rick Blechta
It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it did show that two of the three had possibly operated on the windy side of the law at one point or another. The only way to move forward now was to do some good old legwork.
But first, Pratt definitely needed a few hours of shut-eye.
Ellis, on the other hand, was completely wired. He sat alone in his spare bedroom as his wife slept. He’d found nothing about Mike Master anywhere in the country. On the Internet, the guy simply didn’t exist. It felt odd to be so happy about something not found.
Rolling the desk chair back toward his laptop, he muttered, “All right. I know you’re out there somewhere. Let’s find out who you really are…”
Pratt rolled into work the next morning at nine twenty, his eyes still smarting from two days of little sleep and long hours staring at a computer screen.
He was soon on his way again. Armed with photos of Margerie Lewis and Carl Thomson, he drove out to the suburban neighborhood where the Lewises lived.
Pratt first tried his luck at the house directly across the street. An old woman answered the doorbell. Perfect. Maybe she was the “nosy neighbor” type.
His badge in his hand, he said, “I’m Detective Pratt. We’re searching for a man, and I’m hoping you can help.”
“What man? Why?”
Pratt pulled out his photos of Thomson. “This man. Have you seen him in the area?”
She looked at them long and hard, then shook her head.
“No. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before.”
“It would probably be during the day.”
Now she was more certain.
“No. Sorry I can’t help. Is he dangerous?”
“No. We just want to ask him some questions. Sorry to have bothered you.”
At the surrounding houses, Pratt had two no-answers to his ring and two more negative answers from people who came to their doors. He might have continued down the street, but if the immediate neighbors hadn’t seen anything, he doubted he’d get any hits farther away.
Thomson’s face was also unknown to the old man living in the house directly backing onto the Lewises’. On either side of him, it was the same. At that point, Pratt gave up, somewhat depressed. It had been a bit of a long shot, but he’d had hopes.
At the far end of the street was the back end of a fairly large park. Pratt figured he’d try his luck there. Not wanting to alarm the young mothers he found near the playground, he told them it was an insurance-fraud case.
After twenty minutes, he’d struck out again. Spotting a park bench, he sat to reconsider his theory. Maybe he was barking up the wrong tree.
The sun was warm, so he unbuttoned his overcoat. It was finally feeling like spring.
A few minutes later, a young mother sat down at the other end of the bench. She needed to tend to her fussy baby. Once a bottle was stuck in its mouth, the crying stopped. The mother sighed, shut her eyes and tilted her head back, bathing her face in the warm sun.
A moment later, she asked without opening her eyes, “You a cop?”
Pratt sat up straight. “What makes you think that?”
“You look like one. I know the breed. My dad’s a cop too. Maybe you know him. His name’s Burt McDonnell. He’s a detective.”
“You’re Shelley McDonnell? Excuse me, but I didn’t recognize you. Actually, the last time I saw you, you were only twelve.”
She finally turned, and sure enough, he could detect a bit of her dad in her eyes and mouth. “And you are?”
“Pratt. Merv Pratt,” he answered, holding out his hand.
As they shook, she grinned.
“My dad’s mentioned you. Says you’re a real good detective, but a pain in the ass. I hope you don’t mind my saying that. Dad’s pretty blunt, as you certainly must know.”
Like father, like daughter, he thought.
Shelley tilted her head to the sun again. “What brings you here? Are you hot on a case right now?”
“Something like that. I’m trying to find out if someone has been seen around this neighborhood.”
“Any luck?”
“So far, no.”
“Who is it?”
“This guy,” Pratt said, holding out one of the Thomson photos.
She looked at it for only a second.
“I’ve seen him a few times. He drives a yellow ’Vette. Nice car, the kind you notice. He leaves it on the far side of the park, then cuts across, walks down the street and around the corner. An hour or so later, he’s back.”
“Is he always alone?”
“As far as I’ve seen. Bet he’s canoodling with some lonely housewife in the neighborhood. He looks the type,” she added, handing back the photo. “So, is marital infidelity now on official police radar?”
“Not really. I’m trying to find out if he knows someone a bit better than he admits.”
“On the way back to his car, he looks like a canary-swallowing cat, so I’d say yes.”
Pratt got to his feet. “Thanks for your help, Shelley.”
“No problem. Small world, isn’t it?”
“You can say that again.” He started to walk away, then turned. “By the way, when was the last time you saw our friend?”
She pursed her lips, considering. “About a week ago. Yes. A week ago Friday. He was a bit longer that day. Looked as if he had a pretty good romp.”
Shelley flashed Pratt a big smile, then turned to her baby, who’d finished the bottle.
Pratt’s step had more life in it as he walked back to his car.
Chapter Twelve
Ellis was also in a park. He’d slept only three hours, but unlike his older partner, he felt wide awake, ready for anything.
At nine AM, he’d gotten hold of Carolyn Tucci to arrange another meeting. She had an earlier shift that day, and they agreed to meet in a park near the coffee shop.
As she walked up, he studied her closely. Underneath all the goth makeup and facial piercings, she reminded him strongly of the mother he and Jamie shared. He wondered if his half brother realized that.
Ellis got right to the point. “Tell me more about Mike Master.”
“What have you found out?”
“Pretend I know nothing. I want to hear this in your words.”
“Well, he’s weird, very weird.”
“You said that yesterday. Can you be more specific?”
“He lies about everything. Have you seen his Facebook page?”
Ellis nodded.
She continued, “Since he joined Rotten Attitude—”
“When was that?”
“About eight months ago. Since he joined, I’ve heard him change stories about things dozens of times. The band just writes it off as him being a born bullshitter, but I’m not so sure. Here’s something else: he has no ID. I looked in Mike’s wallet once, and there was nothing in it but a bit of cash. No cards, no driver’s license, no nothin’. Do you know anyone with zero ID in this day and age?”
“Where does he live?”
“At the band house. Jamie and I have our own place now, but the rest of the guys live at the house. They rehearse in the basement. They think it’s cool, but it’s really a dump and not worth the rent.”
“How does everyone in the band get along?”
“Pretty well, I guess. Of course, they have fights about songs when they’re working them out. Nothing serious though. Jamie writes all the band’s good songs.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a CD. Its cover had only Rotten Attitude scribbled across it. “Promise me you’ll listen to it. It’s really good.”
Ellis nodded and slipped it into his coat pocket. “How does Jamie get along with Mike?”
She shrugged. “All right, although there’s a lot of push and pull over who’s the leader of the band. Mike obviously wants to be.”
“And the others?”
“Skip and Jonny have been with Jamie since high school. They’re still solid. But with Jamie currently out of the picture, I don’t know what w
ill go down.”
“What do they believe happened the other night?”
Carolyn sighed heavily.
“I get the feeling they think Jamie did it. They won’t say so, of course, but you can see it in their eyes. A couple of weeks ago, we were all sitting around after a long rehearsal. Gigs have been thin on the ground, and Rotten Attitude seems to be spinning its wheels. They were shooting the shit about surefire ways to get noticed. Someone jokingly said, ‘Well, I guess one of us could always kill someone.’ We all laughed.”
“Do you remember who said that?”
She thought for a couple of seconds, then shrugged. “No. Sorry.”
“Bet it doesn’t seem so funny now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Pratt’s luck didn’t hold through the afternoon or else the cheating couple had never met around Thomson’s apartment. Either way, he now had something to confront them with. Question was, did the husband know?
The next stop downtown was to speak again with The Boom Room’s longest-serving employee, a bartender named Ben.
Fittingly, they met at a bar—just not the one Ben hoped he still worked at.
Being midafternoon, the joint was deserted. Ben had a pint, and Pratt, black coffee.
“I need you to help clear up a few questions,” Pratt began.
“Hey, no problem. If it will help things along and get The Room open again. Everyone is asking about it.”
“You don’t think people would be turned off that someone was murdered there?”
“Are you kidding? Now The Room is even more notorious! It’ll be jammed from the first night—guaranteed.”
Ben looked to be north of thirty with short blond hair, blue eyes and bulging muscles. Pratt guessed why he enjoyed working there. “All those young girls and so little time” was probably the bartender’s motto.
Reading from his notes, Pratt said, “When I first questioned you, you told me, quote, ‘Joe Lewis really had no idea how a bar operation runs.’ Care to elaborate?”
“This is between you and me, right?”
“Absolutely. Nothing will have to come out unless it has a direct bearing on Lewis’s murder, and then only in court.”
“Well, okay. I just don’t want to risk my job.”
“So what did you mean about Lewis?”
“He was a businessman, sure. Had some money, bought the club four years ago and figured to rake in the dough. But you have to know things beyond ordering booze and stuff. You gotta know what brings in the crowds. He tried a DJ for a while, but the joint wasn’t exactly jumping.”
“So what changed? I understand it’s now the hottest place in town.”
“Carl Thomson. He’s got the touch about what’s hot and what’s not. Carl started booking live acts, got Joe to put in a kick-ass light show. The place changed overnight.”
“So what are you gun-shy about telling me?”
“Carl Thomson, he’s a shifty bugger.”
“Is he dealing drugs out of the place?”
Ben took a pull on his beer.
“Not smart in the club district. Somebody takes a dislike to you, and suddenly the cops appear. Carl’s not stupid.”
“Then what is going on?”
“It started with the usual diddles anyone pulls working in a bar. Carl always took over the service bar when it got busy. We all knew he was bringing in his own booze. Don’t ring it in when you pour it, then pocket the money. It’s pretty well undetectable. On a busy weekend, you can easily skim a few hundred each night. I’m certain he was running other scams too. When you work behind a bar for a while, you learn all the tricks.”
Pratt felt sure Ben did the same thing.
“You said, ‘It started with the usual diddles.’ What changed?”
“Some of us felt that over the last few months, Carl was doing his best to run the place into the ground.”
“How was he doing that?”
“Mostly by booking bad acts, but he also hired two really crappy bartenders—slow, lazy, bad attitudes. Then two weeks ago, Lewis started being at the club more. The two bartenders were canned, and Lewis hired the replacements. Carl was told to book Rotten Attitude. They’ve always filled the place.”
“Having Lewis there was out of the ordinary?”
“Sure. Old Joe just wanted the money at the end of the night. He was never there to work. Carl was going around with a long face, let me tell you. I got the feeling he was going to be shown the door. But Carl had the touch with the bands, and Lewis couldn’t get rid of him without slitting his own throat.”
“Did you hear any rumors about the place changing hands?”
“Sure. Carl made no secret he wanted to buy it. Actually, he tried to make it a secret, but when he’s had a few drinks, his mouth gets a little loose.”
“Anything else?”
“They had a big fight about something last week. I was the only one there at the time, but I went downstairs to the office. The door was shut and they were screaming at each other.”
“What day?”
“Friday, I think…Yeah. Friday. My luckiest night of that week.” Ben flashed a toothy grin. “Would you believe it? Twins!”
Chapter Fourteen
Pratt had never been to his partner’s condo, though he’d been invited several times.
Jennifer Ellis was not what he expected. In many ways, she was her husband’s opposite. He was tall (over six feet); she was short (maybe five three). His hair was dark and short; hers, long, flowing and blond. He was quite handsome; she was sort of plain. When she welcomed Pratt, though, he could tell from her eyes that a very special person lived inside. She taught kindergarten, and he got the feeling that she was very good at it.
“Finally I get to meet the formidable Detective Pratt,” she said with a smile. “My husband speaks of practically no one else.”
Said husband turned bright red.
When Jennifer went off to fetch beers, Pratt suggested they find someplace private to talk.
“The less anyone knows about this, the better.”
Ellis suggested the condo’s balcony, even though the night was rather chilly. Early spring often brought winds off the lake.
I know where I’d spend my time if I lived here, Pratt thought when he saw the view.
“So why the big rush to see me?” Ellis asked once the beers had been delivered.
“Forensics came back with an early report on the knife we found.”
“And?”
Ellis kept his expression blank, but Pratt could tell he knew what was coming.
“Jamie’s fingerprints are on it, as well as blood. No DNA yet, of course, but the blood type is the same as Lewis’s.”
“Jesus Christ…”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, of course, and I’d suggest you keep it from your family. We’re not going to announce it to the press for the moment—unless Gordon shoots off his mouth.”
“So that’s the end of it.”
“Not quite.” Pratt opened his briefcase, which contained the police computer Ellis wanted to use. On top were two photos. “They sent over photos, and something on them is bothering me. Take a look at these and tell me what you think.”
They were close-ups of the dusted knife. The prosecution would use them in court to identify the accused’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.
“There are some odd smudges on the handle just above the blade.”
“Good lad. Forensics won’t say what they think. Gordon says that’s where your brother gripped the blade when he was pulling it out of Lewis’s back. That caused the smudges. I can’t explain them, and that bothers me. I’ve never seen anything like it before, frankly.”
“What are you going to do with this?”
“Think about it. Try to come up with other ways it could have happened.”
Ellis needed access to the police computers, something he didn’t have at the moment. So far, he’d been unable to track down any information about Mike Master
before he’d joined the band. While that fact was telling, Ellis needed to get some solid information about the singer’s past. Pratt’s computer was his only hope for that, since he’d had to turn in his while on leave.
It didn’t take Ellis long to tell Pratt the little he actually knew. And most of that came from Carolyn Tucci, so it might not be reliable.
Pratt asked, “And you believe Tucci is on to something?”
“I didn’t at first. But when I found Masters actually was completely off the radar, I began to think she might be right. Obviously, Mike Master isn’t his real name.”
“Also, Carolyn might not be privy to everything going on in the band.”
“I thought of that too.”
“I would talk to Jamie again, but I caught hell from McDonnell for going to see him by myself. If I go again, I have to let Flash tag along. I don’t know if I want to do that.”
“That only leaves the band members. I’d talk to them—”
“If anyone needs to be questioned, I do it. Period.”
Ellis smiled. “Yes, boss.” He took a last swig of his beer. Then asked a little too casually, “So how is Jamie?”
“Scared. Gordon is really turning the screws in hopes of getting a confession. I didn’t BS him. He’s in deep if we don’t come up with something. But I did let him know someone’s working for the truth.”
Ellis sighed. “We all appreciate your efforts.”
“The least I can do.”
“So how do we proceed?”
“Use my laptop. You can log in as me. You know this computer stuff better than I do. So I’ll let you handle searching for Master through official channels.” Pratt put down his empty beer bottle. “But I need your help too. I need someone to follow Carl Thomson, someone who won’t be seen.”
He quickly sketched out what he had learned during the day and what he suspected.
“If we could catch Thomson and Margerie Lewis together, we might make good use of that to get other information. You think Master might be involved with Lewis’s murder. I think it might be Thomson and the wife.”
“So I follow him, and hopefully they meet up. What then?”