D.B. Hayes, Detective

by Darlene Scalera; Dani Sinclair

  “She didn’t mean it, Dee.”

  I was shaking. “She meant it. This isn’t going to work, Trudy. I knew the situation was questionable from the start.”

  “She loves you.”

  “Love isn’t the issue here. I don’t have the time or energy right now for her feelings about my work.”

  “She’s just upset.”

  “Tough. So am I.”

  “Dee, please. Let me help.”

  I wanted to storm on out and tell her I didn’t need her help, but that was a gut reaction and unfair. I wasn’t mad at Trudy. I wasn’t even mad at Aunt Lacy. I knew my family didn’t approve of my being a private investigator. I’d thought at least Aunt Lacy respected my right to choose my own lifestyle. I’d always respected hers.

  “You want to help? Get me whatever information you can on the four principals involved. Elaine Russo and Nicole Wickley. Who are their friends? Where were Albert and Elaine married? How long ago? Where does Elaine come from? What do we know about Russo? He’s not homegrown. When did he first show up in Cleveland? Who backed him? Who’s behind him now? When did he start seeing Nicole Wickley? That last one is especially pertinent. How long has Delvecchi worked for Russo? In general, whatever the gossip mill has, I need to know.”

  “I’ll get what I can. Where are you going?”

  “To call in every favor I can. If Elaine left town, there’ll be a money trail I can follow. Susan Arrensky works for the same bank Russo uses. I’m going to find out how grateful she is for my help with her divorce case.”

  “Dee, wait and talk to your aunt,” she pleaded.

  “Later. I’ve had very little sleep and I’m upset. You’d better call Florence to come in and give you a hand for a while. I’m going to be pretty busy until all this gets resolved.”

  SUSAN ARRENSKY WAS DELIGHTED to see me until I told her what I wanted. I’d gotten there right before the bank closed at noon, but she’d ushered me into her office anyhow. She got up in a hurry and closed the glass door.

  “Dee, you know I can’t give you someone else’s account information.”

  “I don’t want specific information. I only want to know if there’s been activity.” I leaned in close and brought my voice down to little more than a whisper. “Susan, this is between you and me and only because I know you so well. It’s going to be a police matter soon enough. This information doesn’t leave this room. I’m trusting you.”

  Susan leaned toward me, her eyes wide.

  “I have reason to believe Elaine Russo was murdered.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “You can help me check by looking to see if there’s been any activity in her accounts in the past few days. That’s all I’m asking. Will you help?”

  I watched her think about that. “A favor for a favor?”

  It was my turn to hesitate.

  “Lyle threatened to destroy my grandmother’s loving cup.”

  I was already shaking my head. I knew what was coming even before she had the words out of her mouth.

  “You get the cup away from him for me, I’ll get you the information.”

  “I could lose my license!”

  “I could go to jail! Do we have a deal?”

  I closed my eyes. “Deal.”

  Susan turned back to her computer. “You wouldn’t happen to have her social-security number, would you?”

  “Better.” I pulled out the copy I’d made of Russo’s check to me.

  “You’re right. This is better.”

  She punched a few keys and studied the screen. Her brows knit. “Wait here a minute, okay?”

  That didn’t bode well and it gave me time to stew over what came next. How was I going to steal the ugly loving cup away from Lyle Arrensky without getting arrested for illegal entry, or worse, pulverized by one of his hamlike fists?

  Susan was gone long enough to add to my nerves. I was actually thinking about getting up and leaving when she returned with a peculiar expression on her face.

  “Your check was drawn to an account held solely by Albert Russo. Elaine had her own accounts.”

  “Past tense?”

  Susan shifted uncomfortably. “I could get in a lot of trouble for even answering that question, but yes. She closed out her checking and savings accounts last Friday.”

  “Are you sure it was Elaine Russo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t someone posing as her?”

  Her mouth fell open. I should have kept that bit to myself. I stood and faced her. “Susan, when the cops come or you talk to your dad, we never had this conversation.”

  She grabbed my arm. “You won’t forget the loving cup?”

  “I won’t forget.” If I lived to be a thousand, I’d never forget that ugly loving cup. My life seemed inexorably tied to that stupid loving cup—and Lyle Arrensky.

  I stepped outside the bank and my cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was a pay phone so I answered cautiously. Brandon’s voice, mixed with static, filled my ear.

  “Can you spare a lift?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Rocky River Police Station.”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Ten would be better.”

  “I don’t think getting a ticket would be advisable right now, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Traffic was bad. It took closer to eighteen minutes. He was standing outside in the hot sun looking rumpled and tired to the bone. He was still dressed in last night’s suit, sans tie, with the shirt unbuttoned at the collar and the jacket slung over his shoulder. He needed a shave and his hair was badly finger-combed and he still looked better than any man had a right to look. Just seeing him produced a tingle low in my belly that sent all my female hormones dancing and prancing in anticipation.

  He surprised me further by giving me a quick kiss as he folded himself inside Binky and sank back with a sigh.

  “Rough morning?” I asked.

  “I’ve had better. How about you?”

  “About the same. They sent a Detective Martin over to the shop. He was very polite.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “Tell anyone anything beyond the script we agreed to,” I assured him. “I have, however, managed to unearth one interesting tidbit. Elaine Russo—or maybe Nicole Wickley posing as Elaine Russo—walked in and cleaned out Elaine Russo’s checking and savings accounts last Friday.”

  His head whipped toward me. Satisfied with the reaction, I put the car in gear and started driving.

  “I think it would be interesting to see if either one of them booked a flight out of town since then. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m in desperate need of a shower, some clean clothes, a decent meal and a full night’s sleep before I’m going to be capable of coherent thought,” he said slowly. “My unit’s now a crime scene. Think your father would mind if I used his place again? We could stop and pick up some clothes at the mall on the way over.”

  “No problem. I can swing by Westgate Shopping Center. Uh, Brandon, we have a tail.”

  “Yeah. I’m not surprised. They want me to know I’m being watched. They think I killed him. Still think your father won’t mind?”

  Since I was still smarting over my aunt’s disapproval, I was more than ready to tackle my dad if he raised an objection, but I didn’t think he would. Dad’s generally pretty easygoing about most things. Of course, I’d never brought a murder suspect home for dinner before.

  “Come to think about it,” Brandon added, “do you mind?”

  “No.” Maybe I said that a little too sharply, because he frowned at me. “I sort of let the police think we went back to Flower World to, uh, make out last night.”

  His lips curved.

  “Well, what did you tell them?” I asked.

  “That it was none of their business.”

  He gave me the sort of heated look that would have steered Binky right off the road if I hadn’t stopped for a red light.


  Deep kimchi. Very deep kimchi.

  And the curve of his lips became a grin, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “Mind if I borrow your cell phone?” he asked. “I never got to recharge mine last night and the battery died.”

  I indicated my purse with a wave of my hand. Words were a little beyond me at the moment.

  “Hey there, Fred, it’s Brandon. Uh-huh. I know. Sorry about that. Listen, gorgeous…”

  My head swiveled. The driver of the brown Chevy leaned on her horn as I swerved into her lane as I started through the light.

  “…I’ve got a favor to ask,” he continued unperturbed.

  I forced my gaze back to the road. My attention, however, was totally focused on the conversation taking place beside me.

  “Ah, chicky, you wound me to the core. Of course it’s you I love above all others. How about lunch next week and five big ones to ease the pain of our separation? Uh-huh. Yep, it’s that important. Trust me, my love, I’m between the proverbial rock and a hard place at the moment. No. I need it all. Names, dates, how they paid— Uh-huh. Right. Hold on a sec.”

  He began rummaging through my purse as I turned into the shopping center without causing a wreck. After fishing for a second he pulled out a pen with a duck cap on the end. I’d forgotten the stupid pen was in there.

  “Go ahead, Fred.”

  He began writing on his arm.

  “Got it. You’re a beautiful person. See you Tuesday. ’Bye.”

  I pulled into a parking space, turned off the engine and regarded him steadily.

  “Care to explain?”

  “Might be more fun to let you sit there and stew.”

  I tapped the steering wheel. “Think so?”

  “Uh, maybe not. It just cost me five hundred dollars and lunch on Tuesday, but I got it,” he said. “Do you realize at the rate the cost of bribes keeps going up no client is going to be able to afford us?”

  “We don’t have a client.”

  “Good thing. We’d play hell collecting on this bill.”

  “What exactly is the it you just got?”

  “Your entrance into the master database at Cleveland Hopkins Airport to see who booked tickets on flights going in and out of there in the past twenty-four hours, both domestic and international.”

  I tried not to look impressed. “My entrance.”

  “While I’m taking a shower, you can see whose name pops up.”

  He unfolded himself from Binky’s interior and headed for the mall entrance. I had to run to keep up with him.

  “You’re not joking.”

  “I don’t joke about five hundred dollars. Alfreda Tikku was a friend of my brother’s. Now she’s mine.”

  “Expensive friend.”

  “Worth every dollar.”

  I mulled that over as we went into the men’s department. One of the fundamental differences between males and females is the way they shop for clothing. Most women I know try on several outfits after looking over everything on offer. After that they still may not buy anything at all. The men I know go in, look at the size, pull the item off the rack and their shopping experience is over. We were in and out in under thirty minutes and then only because we had to wait for someone to ring up the sale.

  We made a second stop at the pharmacy for toilet articles and then we were back in Binky and on our way into Lakewood, our tail still glued in place. I resisted the urge to wave.

  I’d left my laptop at the store, but Dad has a home office in the third bedroom upstairs. I felt a little guilty about using his computer to run the illegal hack, but since I’d been given the password, I figured it would be all right.

  We had to go right past the grocery store, so I stopped for dinner fixings. My stomach was rumbling and Brandon said he hadn’t eaten anything resembling real food and I figured a meal was the least I owed my Dad since I was dumping a houseguest on him without notice.

  I was making cookies and deviled eggs to go with the tossed salad, baked beans and ham when Dad strolled in the door. Brandon had gone upstairs to take a shower. I’d heard him on the telephone when I was on the computer, but I wasn’t trusting my hormones anywhere near Brandon and a bed.

  “Hi, sweetie. What brought about this sudden surge of domesticity?”

  “Hi, Dad. Brandon’s borrowing the shower and my old room for the night if that’s okay.”

  “Problem?”

  “Uh-huh. Dead man in his bedroom.”

  My father raised his eyebrows, grunted and headed up the stairs. I figured I’d let Brandon handle the rest of the explanations.

  They came down together a short time later talking tools. I decided that was a good sign.

  “Hungry?” I asked, setting the meat on the table.

  “Starved,” Brandon agreed.

  He looked tired but better than when he’d gone upstairs.

  “Pull up a chair and dig in,” my father told him. “We don’t stand on ceremony around here.”

  “I didn’t know you could cook,” Brandon teased me.

  “I can’t. That’s why we’re having ham and other things that only have to be heated or baked.”

  “Don’t let her kid you. She can do anything she puts her mind to,” my father said, piling his plate high. “She’s just like her mother.”

  The unexpected compliment caught me at the back of the throat with a surge of raw emotion. Dad isn’t one to toss out compliments. I blinked back the sting of tears and looked down at my plate, quickly clearing my throat.

  “Better taste the food first,” I said gruffly, giving Dad’s hand a grateful pat. He took my fingers and gave them a quick squeeze in return.

  “What did you find with the computer search?” Brandon asked.

  I looked up quickly.

  “Hey, I figure your dad has a right to know the sort of mess I dragged you into.”

  “Oh? You’re taking credit for it all now?” I demanded. “Did you recommend me to Mr. Russo in the first place?”

  Dad forked a bite of beans and sat back to chew with obvious relish.

  “Are we going to argue over this?”

  “She argues over most things,” Dad pointed out.

  “Keep out of this. For your information and edification, Mr. Kirkpatrick, Elaine Russo did not book any airline tickets out of Cleveland. However, Nicole Wickley was supposed to have been on a flight to New York City last night.”

  “She didn’t show?”

  “Nope.”

  He frowned as he cut into a piece of ham on his plate.

  “It gets better. She didn’t purchase the ticket. Hogan Delvecchi bought it using his personal credit card.”

  Brandon stopped chewing midbite.

  “But wait for it. I’m not finished,” I told him feeling a flush of satisfaction. “I did a little exploring. That site ties in with several other networks. While Elaine Russo never purchased tickets out of Cleveland, she—or Nicole posing as her—did purchase a ticket to fly to Reno, Nevada, this morning. The flight wasn’t direct, but it originated in—drum roll please—”

  “New York City,” Brandon said, setting his fork down with a soft snick.

  “Exactly.”

  “She never claimed her seat either?”

  “Nope.”

  “So which one is dead?” my father asked.

  Chapter Eleven

  We were still debating that issue after we finished the dinner dishes and sat down to join my father over coffee and cookies. My cell phone trilled. I grimaced when I saw who was calling and inclined my head toward next door.

  “I could dump the phone in the garbage and tell her I lost it.”

  “No!” my father said forcefully. “She can see your car. I do not want that woman coming over here on the pretext of looking for you. I’ll never get rid of her.”

  “Good point.” I answered the phone. “D.B. Hayes.”

  “Dee,” Mrs. Keene shrilled. “He’s here! He’s right outside in my driveway!”
/>
  “What? Do not open the door! I’ll be right there!” I disconnected, jumping to my feet so fast, the chair toppled. “Mrs. Keene’s mystery lover is in her driveway right now,” I told Brandon.

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Not here.”

  “Come on. At least the cop on duty should be useful for something.”

  We were out the back door, leaving my father sitting there with a cookie halfway to his mouth.

  Racing across the lawn, we spotted a young man walking onto the front porch as brazen as anything. He saw us charging toward him and immediately changed his mind. Wide-eyed, he yelped and sprinted back down the steps. At the same time, Mrs. Keene opened her front door and began screaming at me. Brandon yelled for the kid to hold it right there. The kid was doing no such thing.

  I glimpsed the cop in the unmarked car get on the radio, no doubt requesting backup. I saved my lungs for running.

  The youth saw he’d never make his car ahead of Brandon and changed direction, sprinting across the grass instead. Unfortunately pudgy old Mr. Ball was out for his evening constitutional with Peanut and Brittle. The small Chows began yapping in high excitement at all the commotion. Their leads tangled as they danced around the helpless man. Two girls on bicycles paused to watch.

  Brandon launched himself through the air in a flying tackle. That was too much for the dogs as well as Mr. Ball. He landed on the ground with a cry, dropping the leashes. The plainclothes officer ran toward us shouting something. The girls dropped their bikes to help and the dogs took off yipping, leashes trailing. Mrs. Keene continued screaming something in her high, shrill, excited voice as neighbors began appearing on porches.

  I stopped running to pick up something our youthful would-be Romeo had dropped on the ground. The package was wrapped in silver foil with a tiny red bow around what looked suspiciously like a jewelry box to me.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Mr. Ball wailed much closer to hand—something about his hip. Brandon hauled the struggling young man to his feet. One of the Chows clung firmly to the leg of Brandon’s new jeans. The other had run over to the plainclothes police officer and stood there yipping furiously at him. The hapless officer had drawn his weapon, but he didn’t look as if he knew who to shoot first.