The arson investigator had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Our neighbors are complaining to Chen about the smell of smoke. Mrs. Lombardo, in fact, you remember her.”
Ash leaked onto the floor. “I have some questions for Chen, like what time did Frankie Robinson usually get in. Or do you know?”
“Times varied. He didn’t have a traditional 9-5 or set hours of operation from his lovely home-based business, you know?”
“Don’t be an ass. That’s why I asked.”
“Look, I wasn’t sleeping with him, so our times didn’t have to synchronize.”
“That’s my issue. Since no one knows his hours, how’d the person that set up the explosion know when it’ll be safe to get into the apartment?”
“Tough question, but maybe the perp is a woman and set a fake appointment at a hotel to be sure he wasn’t home. Have you checked his credit cards and cell phone records?”
“He’s not dead, yet, so no. Do you mind if we go to your place to chat some more?”
“Can it be later? I have a date.”
“No. I could just go up. Perhaps, you forgot your door was busted through.”
“I forgot.”
“Another blackout, huh?”
“Nope. Not at all. Just been busy. Work stuff.”
“Really. In the file room. Don’t look shocked, I know you’re a bona fide file clerk. We can chat here. Any idea about who you brought into the building last night?”
“Been working on it. Got a date at the same bar tonight to try to get some answers for you.”
“Really. I hope you can get me what I need. Listen, I’m going to let you go to your date to get the answers that I need.”
“Perfect. Maybe they need you at HQ. You should get going.”
“News to me.” Ash fell on his blazer and he didn’t bother to brush it off. “He might make it.”
“He who?”
“Frankie Robinson. Docs say he’s breathing on his own. Third-degree burns may kill his career if he comes out of the coma though.”
“That’s a good thing. I hope he recovers.”
“Me too, or this turns into a murder case. I looked through the hole in your apartment door.”
Christ. “OK. Hopefully, you didn’t violate my Fourth Amendment right.”
“You live in a sty for animals, the explosion or fireman the cause?”
“I can’t blame anyone. Just have been busy working on cases and hadn’t had time to clean up.”
“Oh, OK.” He turned and opened the door. He paused. “Hey, where’s your ascot?”
“Ascot?”
“Yes, the one you had on at my office right around your neck.”
“Neck?”
“I was impressed by the ascot. Women like you don’t usually wear them.”
“Oh.” Dotty got her feelings back. “Good night, sir.”
“Yup. Good night. And remember, you’re still on my list.”
When Rodriguez left, Dotty went back to her apartment and drowned the last drops from a vodka bottle, before splashing water on her face.
Two scenarios. Either Chen had caught Lynch tearing up her apartment looking for the pictures and got himself choked for it, or it happened when Lynch came in search for it and discovered Chen already in her apartment snooping around. It didn’t matter to Dotty. She liked Chen despite their problems about her rent always being late. She’d keep his camera as a memento. She worked the camera to see if it was any good after being smashed, as she dialed Patrick Swayze at his condo.
“Dotty, please, get out of my life.”
“The stakes have been raised. The pictures are quite important now.”
“You get my cut, yet?”
“No. Not yet for crying out loud. I’m checking on my insurance policy. Things are getting out of control.”
“That’s just your weight.”
“C’mon, Swayze.”
“Don’t get your panties in a snare. The pictures are safe and sound.”
“Thanks, best bud.”
“I’m not your bud, you ass. I can’t get my coins if I don’t keep my end of the bargain, dummy.” He hung up.
Oddly, Dotty felt like shit. If that was even possible in her life of drunken debauchery. Someone—maybe her—would have major problems when Chen was found dead. Landlords weren’t on anyone’s Christmas list, especially immigrants that ran massage parlors. The list of suspects ranged from chronic late rent payers (Dotty included), tenants that wanted the smell of smoke removed from the place (Dotty included), and the whole diocese. Which, under close scrutiny, may be right on the money. Mrs. Lombardo had seen Dotty with two dead bodies, but she was no prosecutor’s star witness. All Dotty had to do was keep her crimes to herself. She doubted Lynch would rat her out. Or Bishop Sinclair. One fact remained simple: Lynch didn’t get the film or photos of his beloved Sister Tudor, so Dotty was a lot more deadlier to the Church if she was dead than alive.
Somewhat relieved, Dotty looked through her apartment and wanted to make a fraudulent claim with FEMA to help get it cleaned up, so that she could find her gun. It was a cute, little Walther PK380, semi-automatic, eight shot number that she used once to ward off a crazy husband that chased her after throwing hot beans in his face. It was then he decided she wasn’t worth the trouble and he split with their daughter. Out of love for them, Dotty let them both go away and never looked for them. Now with her front door a wreck she wanted the gun close by, especially since her landlord wouldn’t be buying a new door. She couldn’t find it and that was eating at her.
Realizing, suddenly, that she hadn’t taken Mrs. Lombardo’s advice and was drinking without eating, she scooted to the refrigerator looking for food that wasn’t in the form of liquid. She came up with half of a cheesesteak, popped it into the microwave, and then drowned it in cheap squeeze cheese and ketchup before swallowing it. She was amazed at how good a two-day-old cheesesteak tasted.
Pushing unfolded, clean laundry from one side of the sofa to another, she plopped down and decided to catch reruns of Forensic Files—the source for her arsenal of investigative tactics. To her dismay the back of the TV was removed. You bitch, she thought of Lynch or Chen. Her need for a TV and the damaged door made her think of Frankie Robinson. His call was starting to cost her far more than she thought. She decided to get to bed early, taking her mini-bat with her just in case Lynch returned.
The telephone pulled her out of a dream; she was at Liquor Palace, a hotel that poured liquor out of the faucets instead of water.
“Whoever you are, you’d better hang up right now, or I’ll find out where you live and communicate with ISIS from your home computer, calling the FBI from your home phone to report you before I slip out.”
“Amazing, you’re so chipper.” The caller cleared his throat. “Dotty, we need to talk.”
“Not at this time. Who the hell are you?”
“This is Scott Sinclair.”
“Who the hell is Scott Sinclair?”
“Bishop Sinclair, Dotty. Tell me you drink so much that you don’t recall.”
She perked up and looked at her Mickey Mouse watch. You son of a bitch, she thought. “It’s after midnight.” She groaned.
“Thank you. It’s a fresh new day. New horizons brewing. Can you meet me at Our Lady Of the Rosary rectory at noon?”
“And let you slip me another bad batch of the Church’s sacred wine?”
“I am deeply sorry about that. If you’ll meet me for lunch, I’ll show you how much.”
“I would never eat or drink in your company. No way, Jose.”
“OK, fine. Just meet me, because I accept the terms of your job proposal. We should discuss this in detail over food and wine.”
“No food. I’ll be there and I’ll be bringing my own bottle of wine.”
DOTTY WAS CONFUSED and thought about her next move when her cell phone rang.
“Look, I don’t know who this is, but I am having a bad fucking day. If you hang up now—”
>
“Then your day is about to get worse.”
“Luscious?”
“The one and only,” he said, chuckling. “You’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. I quit.”
“Even better. No unemployment payments that way.”
“Your word against mine.”
“I expect your resignation letter by tomorrow at noon. I have had visits from the Church and the cops. I can handle heat from the cops, but I don’t play with God.”
“Funny, you don’t strike me as the kind of man that can’t handle heat from God.”
“I can’t.”
“Set a man on fire and he’ll love heat the rest of his life.”
“Is that a threat?”
“You fired me so I don’t have to answer that.”
“You know what.”
“Oh, and Luscious. I quit,” she said, hanging up.
10
Our Lady of the Rosary was a compound with a church, rectory and a K-12 school in Center City’s Society Hill area. It covered an entire city block steps away from the Constitution Center and drew visits from sitting US Presidents. Dotty parked, dashed inside the church, and was enveloped by a vaulted echoing interior with three sections of pew with navy-blue-colored runners in the aisles between. At the feet of a twelve-foot crucifix with a porcelain Jesus, a teenaged boy dressed in a white robe was busy lighting candles.
“Hey, young man.” The words assaulted every wall.
The boy continued to light candles.
“What’s your name, pal?”
“Jonathan Gotti.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what everyone says. You shouldn’t use curse words, and especially not in the Church.”
“My apologies. What do I owe five Hail Mary’s, Jon Gotti?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s your boss?”
Gotti nodded towards Jesus.
“The one on earth. Bishop Sinclair?”
“I think the rectory.”
“OK, thanks. You’re awfully good with the lighter. You smoke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Drink?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Curse?”
“No, ma’am!”
“Wow, you must live in a home with a single mom. You need an old man.”
The boy pointed out a miniature version of the cathedral surrounded by rosebushes. Dotty left Gotti and pushed a button by the rectory’s front door. When no one answered on the second buzz, she tried the knob. Maybe the bishop was asleep. She’d love to get photos of him in the buff, for blackmail purposes. She walked into the unlocked office and poked her head around. She pulled out a few drawers, looking for anything that may bolster her claim that the pastor had drugged her.
After twenty minutes she found nothing important, but she purloined a leather-bound book with coded notes inside. Walking out of the office, she pulled the door shut, and used her cell phone to call Bishop Sinclair. It rang several times.
“This is Bishop Sinclair.”
“I’m on the steps, Your Bishopness,” Dotty said. “Where the fuck you been the last half hour?”
“...can’t come to the phone right now...”
Bullshit. This is going to be added to the bill mister. On her way out, she asked Gotti to relay a message, “Tell the bishop that I was here and he can reach me at home.”
“OK.”
“You saw him today, kid?”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“Interesting. OK. Have a nice day.”
DURING THE DRIVE HOME, Dotty had quite the time seeking puddles with pedestrians standing or walking nearby and ran the fancy car through them. Whenever she splashed one with dirty water, she celebrated with a gulp from her flask. At a bus stop, she scored three senior citizens, a FED-EX driver, and a blind man with a seeing-eye dog, and drank all of the contents left in the flask. Little awards. If she had quit her job for nothing, she’d send the pictures to the Associated Press and help Bishop Sinclair say goodbye to any ascension with the Church.
Nearing her apartment, Dotty received a call from the arson investigator.
“I need you to meet me over at U of Penn hospital, ASAP. Frankie’s up and talking about nothing. He refuses to divulge who tried to blow him up to anyone but you.”
“I’m not a cop. I can’t help him. And I hate lawyers, so, I know none. Unless I need help, that is.”
“Well, you must have a way with men, because he wants to see you now, and so does his brother.”
“Is that right? I do have a way with men.” She was looking in her rearview mirror blushing.
“Get your ass over here.” He hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Dotty walked onto Frankie’s hospital room floor and found Rodriguez smoking a cigarette.
“That has to be illegal and unhealthy for patients,” she said without preamble.
He flicked ashes onto the floor.
“Fuck you.”
“Pardon me?” A mean-faced orderly stopped and glared at Dotty.
“Talking to the cop.” She stood with her back against the wall. “Why am I here?”
“Because you have many enemies for seventy and this is one.”
“I’m fifty-six. Don’t push your luck, Hun.”
“No shit. Jesus, life has been rough on you. All that time in the file room.”
“Man, please. You’re far from Tom Cruise.”
“Back to the point, the man here says fuck you. Why?”
“No idea.”
“Where were you that night?”
“Paddy’s Old City Pub on Second and Race from happy hour to nine.”
“You could’ve left there and rigged the switch. Where else?”
“Moriarty’s Bar from nine-ten until eleven. Some dude pumped me full of drinks.”
“I find that hard to believe; you’re not pretty enough. Anyone else would remember you? A bartender?”
“Both should. I was pretty shit-faced.”
“You’re shit faced now and reek of terrible, cheap liquor.”
“That’s fine. But that’s where I was. Why are we doing this in a hospital hallway?”
Dotty suddenly wanted to do the unthinkable: to tell the truth. At this point, she was guilty of withholding evidence, the kind of charge that wasn’t a big deal. Maybe there was a law about improper disposal of a nun; but she could beat that too. A bishop had ordered her to bring the woman who died naturally home. On the flip side, the fact that Lynch had strangled Chen while tearing up her place convinced her the photos were worth their weight.
The cop said, “Because I want to. What about the two guys Mrs. Lombardo saw you with this morning?”
“Can’t recall,” she said.
“I don’t get it. Why not?”
“Look, I forgot.”
“Problem is yesterday you knew nothing and now you know all of your places and times, but no idea about who you brought home. Your alibis.”
“I didn’t rig the man’s apartment to blow him up. No motive to and I would have messed up my own lovely home.”
He chuckled. “You know I believe you. But something is off here.”
“May. Be. That’s your job to get it on. So, is Frankie going to awake or what?”
“Yes, but who knows when he will be able to talk.”
“You bitch.” Dotty buttoned her coat. “I knew he wasn’t up asking for me. I’m out of here if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t, but I’ll be looking into these alibis. As...”
“I’m still on your list.”
“You got it. Before you go,” the arson investigator said, signaling for a tall, handsome man to join them. “Dotty meet Frankie’s brother, Hank Robinson.”
“You can call me Hankie, ma’am.”
She held out her hand and he grabbed it. She did a curtsy, and said, “You are a tall glass of chocolate milk, Hankie Pankie.”
“What was that?”
&n
bsp; “I digress.”
“OK, I’d like to talk to you. Without the arson investigator, I mean.”
Dotty had already been eyeing Hank—couldn’t help it—as he stood outside of Frankie’s hospital room, right in her line of sight. He was about Dotty’s height, lean in a pink Polo Ralph Lauren polo shirt, blue jeans, and Timberland boots. His features were refreshing and smooth like Frankie’s, but they had to have one different parent. He looked more like twenty-five than forty-five. They retreated to the end of the hallway and he smiled at her.
“Thanks for saving my brother.”
“No problem,” she said. “I didn’t actually save him from death as I was dead as this floor when the explosion occurred, but I rescued him from something much bigger that he needs to wake up and tell you about.”
“That makes sense. He’s always been known to get into trouble. I’m the good son. I haven’t talked to him since we were little. Our parents gave up on him long ago. They’re strict Evangelicals.”
“What a shame.”
“Our lives went on without him when he filmed himself jerking off, posted it on PornHub, a member of the church found it, and told the whole congregation by posting it on our church’s Facebook page. Some people watched the vid. When I saw him on the news though, I was compelled to come here to help him.”
“The cop lied and told me that he was conscious, son of a bitch.”
“Whoa, ma’am. The language.”
“I’m grown.”
“A woman shouldn’t talk that way.” He put a hand on her shoulder and she dithered. “I’m working on a doctorate degree at U Penn, so I’d appreciate if you stayed in touch just in case he awakens. Maybe we can do lunch. I owe you for Frankie.”
“Like a date?”
“Probably,” he said, smiling. “Whatever floats your boat, ma’am.”
“Dotty. You can call me, Dotty.”
“Ms. Dotty if I’m nasty.”
She covered her mouth and chuckled. “I guess you’re not as born again as your parents?”
The Drunk Detective Page 6