The Drunk Detective

by Mary Jean Curry

  “I am. Just super flirty. But I have to go. When and if he awakens call me and I will do the same.” He handed her a business card with a name and number printed on it, but no profession.

  “No problemmo,” she said. “I am just going to tuck this into my bar, I mean bra. If the police badger your brother too much about what he did be sure he knows that I have pictures to make them back off. He’ll understand.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. You’re a detective, I bet you have compromising pics.”

  “I certainly do. I’ll be in touch if I learn anything.”

  11

  Shortly after two a.m. Dotty staggered into her apartment having drunk away the realization that she never made an anonymous call to have Chen cleaned up. She was sickened, but protecting her own backside trumped the idea of saving his. She sat on her bed and the telephone rang. “Whoever you are, you better be dying?”

  “I’m dying to know why you haven’t checked in. I was beginning to think you scored cash from the bishop and skipped town.”

  “Swayze?”

  “Who else? So did you get paid?”

  “What?”

  “The bishop. Jiminy Cricket. Did you make a deal to sell the pictures?”

  “Working on that. Treat this like a post-job interview: I’ll call you, don’t call me.” She hung up.

  She was stretched on her bed in all of her clothes when her phone rang again.

  “Patrick Swayze, Jesus.”

  “You dreaming of the Dirty Dancing sexy version, or the To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything gay one?” It was Rodriguez.

  “I’m mad that you know the entire title.” Dotty drew a deep breath. “It’s two-thirty a.m.”

  “Thank you. This the twentieth time I’ve tried to call both of your numbers and I e-mailed you. I contacted all of the bars you told me about yesterday.”

  “We gotta talk now?”

  “You were truthful, I wouldn’t go back to Moriarty’s if I were a sane person.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “Homicide, buddy-o-pal. You’ve left out some details in our prior chats.”

  Chen. Dotty shot up, moaning with her bones cracking, and groped around for her flask. It wasn’t in bed with her. “Shit. Where are you? Downstairs?”

  “Hell no. Why would I be there? I’m in Society Hill.”

  “Society Hill?”

  “Society Hill. Is there an echo on the line?”

  “What’s in Society Hill?”

  “Point blank. One dead bishop.”

  “Bullshit. Sinclair?” She immediately slapped her leg. “Oh, God.”

  Pause. “You said that faster than a contestant on Family Feud looking to play.”

  She feverishly looked for her flask. She found it. Drank the one available drop.

  “Dotty Davis, you still with me?”

  “Yes. I don’t know nothing ‘bout a dead bishop.”

  “Funny. You knew his name.”

  “Lucky guess of a trained dick.”

  “Well tell me what’s next in this case?”

  Dotty said nothing.

  “Yup, I hear heavy breathing. I need you to meet me...”

  “Look, I’m not going to meet you anywhere.”

  “Meet me at the precinct or I’ll have so many police cars on your block to search every apartment including Chen’s to fuck with your neighbors. He’ll surely kick you out just like your boss did.”

  “I quit.”

  “I talked to him, too. He fired you. I can assure you that your day will start quite badly if I have to come there

  Two dead clergies from the same parish is looking like one killer. You want to tell me something?”

  “Yes. I am not the killer.”

  “That was something. You own a gun?”

  “If you want to call it that. I haven’t seen it in weeks.” Dotty began to sweat from every pore. Lynch hadn’t left her apartment empty-handed after all.

  “Rigors in full swing, ‘bout six hours. Could be longer. He has powder burns on his face. Killer pressed the gun right to his forehead. We think he knew and expected the murderer.”

  “I can’t hit the LOVE sign in Love Park at point-blank range.”

  “Good, but I’ll need you down at the precinct ASAP to run some test on you.”

  “I’m not in need of any tests. My health is good.”

  “Your liver is on its last breath I am sure. Powder burn tests. Prints. Polygraph.”

  Dotty said, “Oh, that’ll clear my name. I’ll be there after I report a burglary.”

  12

  They locked her in a tank with a stiletto murderer, a pair of butch-lesbians accused of extorting and sodomizing a gay club owner, and a farm girl awaiting extradition to Florida to answer charges of conspiracy to commit robbery, home invasion, and breeding horses in a residential zone.

  The butch-lesbians minded their own business and the stiletto killer seemed content laying on the concrete floor rubbing her feet. Her shoes—size 12 Manolo Blahnik pumps—were collected as evidence in a murder. The farm girl befriended Dotty. She ran north of three hundred pounds and was close to six-feet-four inches with hair down to her ass. Dotty was not inclined to ignore her. Her name was Alexiah.

  “Dotty,” she said, laying an arm on Dotty’s shoulder’s forcing her to sag, “you like horses?”

  “Not particularly. You can’t eat them.”

  “Click. Clack,” said the stiletto murderer.

  “You see that bitch’s face when I punched his ass?” asked one of the butch-lesbians.

  “You’d be surprised all of the uses of horses,” said Alexiah, pulling Dotty closer to her. “Do you like horses now?”

  “Well, give me an example?” Dotty’s reply was choked, but she needed to be convinced.

  “Click. Click. Clack,” said the stiletto murderer.

  “That wasn’t nothing compared to when you stuck the pipe up his ass,” said the other butch-lesbian.

  “Anyway, horses isn’t all we got in Florida. We got oranges,” Alexiah said. “They give oranges with everything. Ever have orange juice and a plate of orange slices with breakfast?”

  “No. That’s odd.”

  “Click. Clack. Click. Clack,” said the stiletto murderer.

  “We shouldn’t have left it up his ass. Your prints may be on it,” said the first butch-lesbian. “You twirled that pipe around and round, gaping his hole. He probably loved it.”

  “What you locked up for, Dotty?” asked Alexiah.

  “They say I killed two bishops.”

  “You’re going to hell. Two? Yeah, you’re done. God hates you. The whole Catholic diocese will be outside the courthouse when you go for bail.”

  “Tell me something that I don’t know.”

  “You should get a horse. They never die on you. When they do you can eat them despite what people say.”

  “Click. Click. Click. Click. Clack!” said the stiletto murderer.

  Alexiah was telling Dotty about a sexual escapade with a horse when the turn-key officer came. “Davis.”

  “Present.” Dotty raised her hand.

  The cop shook his set of keys and inserted one in the lock. “Let’s go. You’re out. Your lawyer’s here.”

  “What’s his name? I called three in honor of the trinity.”

  “The deaf one in an orange suit. Looks like a clown. He’s been here over the years.”

  “Oh, Doc Brennan.”

  “Hey,” said one of the butch-lesbians, as the cop was relocking the bars behind Dotty. “When do we eat?”

  “Soon.”

  “Better be. We need something down the pipeline sooner than later.”

  The other butch-lesbian chuckled at the intended pun.

  “Take care of yourself, Dotty,” said Alexiah, through the bars. “Don’t forget me.”

  “I seriously doubt it, honey.”

  Larry Brennan waited in the discharge room, along with Sergeant Rodriguez, Lieutenant Boxer, and, behind the desk
, another Philadelphia PD officer who had processed Dotty three hours earlier. The officer emptied a manila envelope full of Dotty’s valuables onto a wood counter engraved with many other releasees street monikers and checked them off against a list on a clipboard.

  “One silver flask.”

  “Hello, Dotty.” Brennan took Dotty’s hand in his wet palm. He was a short, Irish man, in his seventies, with manicured nails and a hearing aid. He was often mistaken for a fancy dressed private doctor thanks to all of his loud suits.

  “What’s up, Doc? How’s Barb?”

  “One plastic toothpick holder.”

  “It’s been a while, Dotty. Barb’s two wives back. It’s Amazing Amy now.”

  “Oh. Weren’t you married to Francine, too?”

  “No, you’re thinking Francesca. This one’s a cheerleader.”

  “Wow. Temple U.”

  “Northeast High. She’s barely legal.”

  “I thought you seemed weak.”

  “Viagra script only helps so much.”

  “One pork-bound notebook.”

  “It’s called pigskin. What happened to the other two lawyers that I called.”

  “Jared Johnson’s wanted for child support payments and ducking any new cases just in case the ex-wife proves paternity. Robert Roberts is in intensive care at Einstein Med Center. He forgot to show up for rapper Meek Mills’ probation violation hearing last week. Someone reminded him to never miss another court appearance. It was a brutal message.”

  “One gold pinky ring.”

  “Well I’m elated to see you, Doc. Thanks for getting me released.”

  “One silver pinky ring.”

  “The sarge and the LT here were scared of my presence so they dropped the absurd accusations.”

  “One pinky ring, perhaps white gold.”

  Dotty looked at Rodriguez and Boxer, smiled. Rodriguez grinned and dropped a cigarette butt on the tiled floor. “It’s LT Boxer’s case.”

  “One female condom.”

  “The ME put Sinclair’s death at approximately eleven a.m. and two,” Boxer said, adjusting a boring clip-on tie. “You were with Luscious Goldberg at eleven-thirty, being fired.”

  “I quit,” she said. “For the record.”

  “An altar boy at Our Lady of the Rosary says you were at the cathedral before noon and stayed about an hour and a half. Soon after you met with my sergeant at the hospital. It’s hardly possible a woman of your caliber pulled off a murder with these strict times recorded by trustworthy people.”

  “I resent that. I’m quite capable, but...”

  “Shut up...” said the lawyer.

  “I doubt it. You couldn’t have been fi—”

  “Quit my job.”

  “With Goldberg and made a perfect route to kill the bishop. That would’ve required no traffic and all green lights in Center City. I can’t hold you.”

  “One multi-color ascot, Versace,” said the police officer behind the desk.

  “Well, I gotta go folks.”

  “Two matchbooks from Dave and Busters and Delilah’s Strip Club.”

  “Before you go, can you be a Barbie doll and tell me about your business with Bishop Sinclair.”

  “Thirteen .380 slugs, two Canadian pennies, and a Susan B. Anthony dollar piece. Sign on this line.”

  Dotty signed the receipt and stuffed her belongings into her pockets. “I wanted to give my condolences to the good nun punching her ticket to the Upper Room.”

  Brennan took off his fedora, ran a finger over his bald head.

  “Come on, Dotty, the bishop was killed with your gun.”

  “And it was stolen from my place.”

  “Speak up Dotty.”

  Dotty gave a wicked glare at her attorney. “I thought this is when you tell me to shut the hell up, again.”

  “My batteries died.” Brennan removed the hearing aid and smacked it into his palm.

  Rodriguez stomped his foot at a new burn mark on his necktie. “I guess this is the end of the road for us, Dotty. Too bad Frankie survived. The case has been assigned to Lieutenant Boxer.”

  “Tell me he’s alive.”

  Lt. Boxer said, “We do attempt homicides, too. And I know about a fact that you know: there’s a connection between who tried to blow up Frankie and who did shoot Bishop Sinclair. You may not tell me today, but I’m coming for you because I know you know that connection.”

  “I have Sprint, very bad service connections. I know nothing about good connections. I see you’re clairvoyant, though.”

  “That’s fine. You’ll get an upgrade.”

  “Fuck you, Lieutenant.”

  “Speak up, Dotty,” Brennan said.

  Dotty snatched the hearing aid out of the lawyer’s hand, put it to her lips, and shouted, “Fuck you.”

  The lawyer replied, “Oh, don’t worry yourself about that. The bill is coming your way at five-hundred an hour.”

  13

  Outside of the Round House’s cell block, Dotty rushed towards the exit’s swinging door and it slammed into her face by a cop entering the building. It was the cop who had spoken with Dotty two mornings ago while she sat in Lynch’s hearse next to Sister Tudor.

  “Are you OK, ma’am?” The officer asked, placing a warm hand on Dotty’s shoulder.

  She covered the bottom of her face, blood leaked from her nose onto her fingers, which were badly in need of a manicure. In a high-pitched voice, she said, “Oh yes, sir, I am being great, very very great, thank you.”

  “You don’t look all that great.”

  “I’m great. I always look this way, sir.” Bowing with exaggeration she pulled open the door to flee the police HQ.

  “Wait, ma’am. We’ve met, right?”

  “Absolutely not. I would be very very sure had we met. I’m sure.”

  Outside she leaned against a Channel Six Action News van and blew her nose into some tissue from a reporter. She was occupied, cleaning up when a red Dodge Charger pulled into the space behind the van. Its driver put down the passenger window and leaned to look out of it. “Hey, Dotty, you OK?”

  “Oh, yes, I am just great, very very...” She noticed that it was Naim Butler and her tune changed. “Oh, it’s you. I’m good.”

  “When your cell kept going to VM, I called Goldberg and he told me to call Rodriguez who told me you’d been arrested. Why?”

  “Right now, I shouldn’t discuss the case. You know, pending investigation red-tape. I’m out for now, can I get a ride?”

  “That’s why I showed up. Where you going?”

  “Find a parking lot. In fact, go to the big one on Market Street between Eighth and Ninth across from the Gallery Mall.

  “Do I look like an UBER driver?”

  “For now, yes.”

  They rode for a few blocks in silence. The Charger’s engine purred and the tires hissed on the dewy streets. Dotty went through her pockets until she found the pigskin-and-gold notebook she’d removed from the front of Our Lady of the Rosary Church’s rectory. She had assumed that perhaps the bishop had dropped it on his way in, but now she guessed the killer dropped it on their way out.

  The first five pages were filled with names and numbers recorded in the same print that had sent her an invite to the first meeting with the bishop. Presumptuously, the bishop’s neat script. Dotty recognized some of the local church celebrities, the ones that were questioned on TV about a sex scandal. There were some city officials and local area celebs, but most were unknown to her. There was a lone number on a page with a 202-area code: Washington, DC.

  Naim pulled into the parking lot as Dotty dialed the DC number. Oddly, she felt like some kind of capped-sleuth who had to get to the bottom of a bishop’s murder and the almost-murder of a prostitute. This for one simple reason, the bishop was going to pay Dotty’s bills for the next thirty years or longer.

  “United States Justice Department.”

  It was a pleasant kind of voice. Dotty said, “Thee, US Justice Department in
Washington?” She was shocked.

  “The one and only, ma’am. Can I help you?”

  “Well, are we talking the state or the place with the big white buildings?”

  “The State of Washington, ma’am, doesn’t have a justice department. They have rain.”

  “OK, let me get the man at the top. The Big Cheese.”

  “You mean the woman, Attorney General, Loretta Scalia.”

  Dammit, man. “Well, if she’s available, yes.”

  “Your name?”

  “Just tell her the City of Brotherly Love is calling.”

  “Okey-dokey. One moment, City of Brotherly Love.”

  Dotty was placed on hold. After some elevator music bored her, a raspy, university-loaded voice she knew vaguely from television broadcasts came on the line.

  “Lynch, I told you to never call me here.” She hung up.

  Dotty tossed her phone on the dashboard, and said, “Wow.”

  “What happened? Who was that?”

  “The Justice Department. Seems they’re in on this Church killing spree. I’m wondering the connection to Frankie Robinson now.”

  “Where to next?”

  “You can’t hang with me, kid. I’m dangerous right now.”

  “You were yesterday, too. And the days and months before that.” He started the car and then turned to Dotty. “Let me thank you for the advice. Scott Dempsey was in a hotel room with a dirty blonde. He came clean about the thefts. Mr. Goldberg gave me a bonus.”

  “I bet he loved that.”

  “He acted like I was problematic. But he made up the bonus rule, so he had to pay up. He had the audacity to put a reprimand in my file for violating his other company rule.”

  “Screw his rules. If his reprimands were bullets, I’d be Swiss cheese.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment. I invested the money with a Wall Street broker already. I’ve got big ambitions, Dotty.”

  Dotty’s spider-senses perked up. “I see you know how to prioritize. Glad I could be of service to your goals.” Naim began to back out of the space. Dotty cracked a window. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I am still wondering.”

  “Do not do that. It’s dangerous and hurts the brain.”