Dotty took the phone. “Are you following me?”
“Should I be. You are on my list. Your boss gave me a list of places to find you. All bars.” The connection smelled of fire. “Can you come by the Round House?”
“As in police headquarters?”
“Yes, I have questions and concerns.”
“Like?”
“Like who was out to kill Frankie Robinson. Who would try to fry him? This is definitely arson now. I need you here now, or you may be talking to someone else, and maybe at your job, a fact that I doubt you can stand after talking to your boss.”
“Someone else?”
“Homicide, if he dies.”
Dotty said she’d be there and hung up. “Fuck me.”
“I didn’t literally mean my dick poked my eye out. I mean, I’m huge, but you know.”
“I got bad news, Dumb-bo.”
“Oh, good. You couldn’t handle a Viagra-induced thirteen-inch schlong.”
“Goodbye, Bebo. I have to go.” She stood up.
“Payment.”
“Today is on you for enduring your bad sex joke.”
Puffy, the pit-bull yawned again.
Bebo waved the fumes with the bar rag. “You got that, Dotty. Tomorrow he’ll be on Altoids.”
6
“Let me guess, now you’re Miss Marple?”
Rodriguez burped and then offered Dotty a seat. His desk was made of oak with burn marks on the ends closes to him. On his desk was a poorly made Improvised Explosive Device (also known as a booby trap).
“Your kid’s science fair project? And stop comparing me to fake TV detectives. These breasts are real, baby.”
“No, it’s an explosive device used to rig the electrical socket. This is a model of the one used in your building. You know how to work it? I doubt it. By the looks of your saggy breasts you haven’t worked out in ages.”
“By golly, gosh darn it, heavens no, Mr. Fireman. How do you use this thing?”
“You’re an ass. Basically, it’s used to cross up the wires to create a spark of fire when the switch is turned on. The fire in combination with the fumes from the stove caused the explosion. Quite amateurish, although, painfully effective.”
“Now you’re cooking with fire,” Dotty said with interest and he frowned. “Sorry, bad fire joke.”
“Really, though? You’re smarter than you...well, than I thought. Any who, we asked your landlord about it and he said every apartment has a light switch at the door. He said that he had all of the electrical wirings replaced less than a year ago. Either he’s lying or he was stiffed by an electrician.”
“Either is possible knowing Chen. He’s a slumlord.”
“How cute the way you describe the man that gives you a roof over your head despite your constant late rent payments.”
“He told you that? Sounds libelous.”
“But yeah. Just before your pal comes home, someone turned on all of the burners to the stove on and blew out the flames. The dudes out for the night which is what he does for a living. By the time he gets home the fumes have permeated the place really nice. He opens the door, flips the light switch.” He banged his hand on the desk. “Boom.”
“Jesus.” Dotty jumped.
“Because he only weighed one-hundred-fifty-five pounds, he was thrown across the hall instead of being blown to smithereens. The lightweight saved his life. The report of the burn unit ain’t good. He’s burned over fifty-percent of his body.”
“I guess his career is over.”
Rodriguez didn’t say anything. He put a cigarette out on one of the corners of his desk.
“Why’d you want me here. I don’t even know how to change the lightbulb on my bedroom lamp.”
“Yeah. I wanted to ask you, what kind of landlord is Chen?”
“He’s a real slime-ball.”
“You don’t like him it sounds like.”
“I didn’t say that. If I hated slime-balls, I’d have no friends.”
“You’re friends?”
“Look. I didn’t say that either.”
Rodriguez flipped the butt into a plastic wastebasket and Dotty panicked. She leaned over and saw the bottom of the can filled with water. “I asked about him because he was agitated when I asked had anyone been in the apartment that morning besides Frankie Robinson.”
“And he said?”
“He didn’t have a clue. Asked if I thought he was a weirdo that peeped out of his door’s peephole at his tenants?”
“Did you tell him you did?”
“He’s a lying sack of shit. You know liars in this business, he seemed to be protecting someone.”
“Man, he wouldn’t protect Pope Francis. You badger him like you’re doing me?”
“I pushed him to the point that I wanted to take him for a ride in the squad car to a dark area on Delaware Avenue and dump him in the river. See if he could swim. I only called you here because every tenant said you’ve been living there before they moved in. I assumed you’d know Chen well.”
“He takes my coins monthly. That’s the extent of it.”
“What about the two gentlemen you were with this morning?”
Dotty reached for a toothpick to mask the fact that she had flinched. So, Rodriguez was that kind of arson investigator. “I guess you’ve talked to Lombardo?”
“Should we?”
Holy shit. She didn’t know if the old bat or the cop that drilled her gave up the tapes. “I went overboard with the drinks last night,” she said. “Maybe I brought two guys back with me for a ménage à trois. I sent them home around five.”
“You’re lying through your teeth. Names?”
She huffed. “You ever been white girl wasted? I mean, shit-faced.”
“I’ve drank like a fish, but I smoke mostly.”
“The whole bar knows your name, and you theirs. But you don’t remember them.”
“Where were you drinking?”
“Moriarty’s where you called me, for some time. I don’t recall before or after that.”
“Then you’ve got a big problem.”
“I do. I’m an alcoholic.”
“You can’t account for everything. No one knows when Frankie went out. Perhaps you and your two pals rigged the booby trap and the gas before the explosion.”
“No motive.”
“This isn’t a damn TV drama, Dotty. I can arrest you without motive and let a prosecutor make that part up.”
“But...”
“A hooker, although, a male hooker, could find many easy ways to die,” he said. “Maybe you had a tab with him.” Dotty laughed. “I called another bar looking for you and learned you hadn’t been there since you had a tab.” Rodriguez leaned his head to the side and squeezed his eyebrows together. “Bottom-line, if I was you, I’d produce those friends.”
“What makes me the fall gal?”
“First of all, you should’ve told me that two strangers were in the building. Maybe they tricked you to get into the apartment. Your neighbor was blown up that’s worth mentioning.”
“I didn’t see a connection. I walked them out and locked up. What’s another?”
“I don’t like you at all.”
“Trust me, the feeling is soooooo mutual.”
“I could give two fucks, Dotty Davis.” Rodriguez lit another cigarette. “So you know, it was Mrs. Lombardo that told us three of you were on the stairs, in between stories about her winning at Sugar House Casino.”
“Maybe you should gamble there, but not with me ‘cause I didn’t try to kill the man. May I go?”
“I have a Mass to get to anyway. Let me know if you plan to leave town. You know the drill.”
Dotty stood. “What kind of Mass takes place on Monday?”
“It’s a memorial service. The nun, Sister Tudor, principal of my daughter’s school died sometime last night. They found her this morning at the pew unresponsive. She was announced dead. You don’t look good. You OK?”
Dotty cou
ghed and shot the toothpick right into the wastebasket with the wet butts. “Fine. I almost swallowed that. What did you say the Sister’s name was again?”
“Sister Anne Tudor. She was my daughter’s teacher many moons ago. And to think we had nothing in common. Sure you’re OK?”
“I may go back to smoking again, you make it seem so palatable.” She left out.
“DOTTY COME WITH ME. New rule. I know you love them,” said Luscious Goldberg. “No more two-hour lunches.”
Jack had sent her right into the office with one of his classic grins. Dotty said, “I had to see a man about a fire.”
“You really should watch your words.”
“Man?”
“Fire. F. I. R. E. Fire.” He sounded like a Spelling Bee contestant.
She stopped at Jack’s desk. He was still reading the same paper. What an idiot, she thought.
“Naim Butler around?”
“He left a while ago with a camera around his neck. Luscious gave you hell, huh? Tell me all of the details.” He closed the newspaper, leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head.
“I hope he has a good flash. A young black man with a criminal history looking to be a private investigator. He reminds me of myself.”
“You’re an old bag. And white. Hardly a good comparison. Besides, he’s a vibrant ivy-league law student that was recruited to a firm in New York. They’re paying for his law school. He’s nothing like you.”
“You can hate on me, I’m still the same old G.”
“Rapping doesn’t make you like him. Oh, this came for you by courier.” He held up an envelope.
Dotty didn’t take it. “Any windows?”
“Nope.”
“My ex-husband’s penmanship? I hope ex.”
“How the hell I know?”
“Jackie Ottaman serves subpoenas in plain clothes, but she’s a county sheriff. Was she a big rectangular gal with a dumb face?”
“You’re a big rectangular gal with a dumb face.”
She took it. The envelope was heavy cream stock, addressed in fine calligraphy. “‘Ms. Dorothy Davis,’” she read aloud.
“Obviously, they don’t know you.”
She opened it.
Dear Ms. Davis,
If I am not intruding on prior plans, your presence this evening at six o’clock with be advantageous for you and I.
Very truly yours,
Bernard Sinclair
Papal Nuncio
A card with a Society Hill address engraved on it was paper-clipped to the letter, along with a new Ben Franklin bill.
“FBI, I hope?” Jack inquired.
“Religious mail.” She refolded everything and stuffed it all into in her pocket.
He opened his newspaper. “It’s a bit late for that.”
7
“Get lost.”
“You shouldn’t talk to your partner in crime like that,” Dotty said.
“Ex-partner. I got the boot, not you, because of a clause in a will. Now, I’m booting you. Get lost.”
Patrick Swayze worked at a Wells Fargo as an assistant manager in Two Penn Center. He had a chiseled face, small frame and dominate black eyebrows like former president Lincoln, which he tried to soften with pastel shirts and Windsor knots in his ties. It was five o’clock on the dot and he was stuffing his briefcase to get out of the office.
“You have a fine job. The boot didn’t hurt you one bit,” Dotty said.
“You’re right. Just my wife and daughter and the freedom I had as a detective. Now I’m in the rat race with these people. I hate you.”
“Come on, Swayze.”
“Get lost Dotty.”
“Hell, it was a sweet case. All you had to do was like I told you and sell the photos to the husband. You weren’t supposed to tell Luscious a thing.”
“You could’ve taken the fall since you couldn’t be fired. They wanted to have me arrested.”
“Well, they didn’t so what’s the problem?” They were walking out of the bank.
Outside, in front of the Clothes Pin Statute, Swayze said, “I was out of work for a year because no one believed I was named Patrick-Fucking-Swayze. Can you imagine that on a resume, if you’re not the Dirty Dancing star? My wife divorced me and took my little girl to Florida. I haven’t seen either of them in years.”
Dotty leaned an elbow on the wall of which on the other side had a twelve feet drop leading to the subway. “Kids cost too damn much and they turn out to be problems in their teens. Be glad that you’re free. I freed you.”
When she came to, she was on her back on the ground being ignored by passerby. Swayze now leaned on the wall and kissed his knuckles.
“What brought you here, Dotty?”
“You’ve been in the gym, I see.” She sat up, tasting blood. “You didn’t used to hit me that way. I owe you.”
“You weren’t as fat and slow either. Get the hell up too, but know I’ll knock you back down.”
“I believe I have crosshairs on my back.”
“I will send the assassin a bonus check.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I. There’s plenty of money in that bank.”
“You hear about the male prostitute that was blown up this morning?”
“Gas explosion? I have.”
“Welp, it wasn’t an accident.”
“OMG, you blew up a man-whore?”
“No, what the hell do I look like?”
“I don’t know, but you looked like a pile of dog shit on the ground a second ago.”
“It happened in my building. Someone broke in, messed with the light switch and filled the place with gas before heading out.”
“Smart. What was he into besides giving someone’s wife pleasure and why’re you involved?”
“He was giving more than wives pleasure and obviously pain,” Dotty told him the story, beginning with Frankie Robinson’s call and finishing with the arson investigator’s discovery. She left out the small detail about the staged photos she had created.
“You mean the Sister Tudor the news reported being found by the altar boy at the pew counting Hail Mary’s at the Our Lady of the Rosary church this morning?” Swayze asked.
“Thanks to me and a creep, Lynch.”
“Tell me more.”
“The explosion was for the doll, ain’t that the obvious? Lynch thought we were in my apartment and tried to off me and clean up any evidence to link the Church to yet another sex scandal. Luckily, I went back to my place and to bed.”
“Missing something. The bishop doesn’t need to kill you. He’s quite capable of handling scandals.”
Dotty sucked her lip to stop the bleeding. “You’re a damn fool. This diocese can’t take another incident. He’d do anything to keep this quiet, even try to kill me.”
“Then you should feel fortunate. Justice missed you by a hair. You’ve wronged more than ten prostitutes ever could and needed to pay up.”
“Screw you. The thing is, I was summoned to the rectory to see the bishop in an hour. Maybe he has a bullet with Dotty written on it.”
“Don’t go.”
“I have to. Could be a business deal.”
“You’re going to scam the Church. You must have pictures. You’re going straight to hell, do not pass GO.”
“Just thirty of them. I even took pics of Lynch and his car with the dead nun in the front seat before they pulled off. Oh, and I recorded the pull off until the Caddy turned the corner. They have money, why shouldn’t I get some.”
“Ask Frankie. He got some money, now look at him.”
“I will, but for now I e-mailed you photos to a Dropbox account, but you can’t access them unless I am dead. Young kid, Naim Butler, at the agency is going to give you the info if I don’t contact you by ten p.m. Here’s his number.” She handed him a slip of paper with a number written on it.
“I’m not doing that. Fuck you, Dotty.”
“Come on, Swayze. I figure
d your heart was as big as your ass.”
He pushed her down. She bounced back up.
“You’re pretty strong.”
“Been working out. I told you that.”
“Look you’re the only friend I’ve got.”
“To hell I am. I’m not your friend.”
“Come on. I’ll call you by ten from my home phone only. Thank God they killed the fire before it hit my place.”
“You’re one lucky whore. Gin flames aren’t easy to put out.”
Dotty left, blotting her lip with a handkerchief. She drove towards the rectory with one hand on the steering wheel and the other trying to stop the bleeding, but she could tell it was beginning to swell. She took Market Street right down passing the Gallery Mall and the United States Courthouse. The Society Hill neighborhood was at the end of Market Street (an eight-minute drive from the bank), and the Church was right on Fifth and Chestnut Streets, adjacent to the first US Capital.
Her lip stopped bleeding. Before someone answered the door she looked at her face in a compact mirror and stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket.
“Dotty Davis.”
Perched in the opened doorway, Lynch looked even more sinister than he did this morning at Frankie Robinson’s apartment. He had on the same coat buttoned to the top and his bald head had a little stubble on it in the light.
Dotty’s eyes had widened. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“My Lord is expecting you.”
“People know my whereabouts.”
“Good for them. Or not.” He stepped aside.
Dotty entered the foyer hung with raspberry-colored drapes and followed Lynch down a marble-lined hall that looked fresh. At the end, Lynch knocked on a door, and a voice invited them inside.
The bishop was a midget of a man with a pouch above his waist mirroring a basketball, with jet-black hair parted in the middle and brushed to each side, falling to the white shackle of his clerical collar. He rose from behind a cherry-wood desk, wearing a black cassock that swept the floor and he looked like a wizard in a Harry Potter production on the Avenue of the Arts. The cavernous room was square and smelled of the cheap leather that bound the books on the shelves. A large crucifix made of pearl hung on the wall behind the desk. Lynch and Dotty walked in and the bishop closed the door behind them.
The Drunk Detective Page 4