“Not true?”
“Not even close. Vince said the meeting started on time and was fairly short. There’s forty-five minutes unaccounted for.”
“Why did it take him so long to get back to the lab?”
“That’s what we’d both like to know. I told Vince I’ve got dibs on this, and he agreed to give me first crack at him.”
“Okay, then, invite him over. But why would he come? How can he face you?”
“If I know Adam, he’ll want an opportunity to fall all over himself apologizing because he’ll think that will help. He’s the kind to lean and grovel and abandon what’s left of his busted pride so he can beg.”
“That sounds like a pleasant dinner guest.” My sarcasm was unmistakable. “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
“Well, if he’s not behind bars, then tell him, our place for grilled steaks, potato salad, and sourdough bread.”
“We can grill him and steaks at the same time,” he said with the smile I knew was there.
Then I heard twittering songbirds. “Where are you?”
“Hiding out,” he answered with no hint of shame. “Getting some fresh air. And not a soul around. Are you at home?”
“City Hall. Doing penance for Irv Hammer.” He knew what that meant. Enough said. “You’re not going to be there all evening again? The darting tournament’s tonight.”
“As it turns out, I’ve been specifically uninvited to the evening session. They’ve picked my brain, and now I’m nonessential,” he said, not at all offended. “The room’s pretty crowded anyway. Everyone’s posturing and positioning themselves. Depending on how quickly this house of cards falls, I think they all want to be close to the door. Not only is Foss here, but the museum and the foundation each sent an attorney to represent their interests.”
Suddenly concerned he might prefer a quiet evening, I asked, “Are you sure you feel like going to Night Sticks?”
“God, yes,” flew back through the phone. “Watching someone poke holes with sharp pointed steel, even in me, would be an improvement over the torture of my day thus far.”
We decided driving separately to the neighborhood bar would be easier. He wanted to check in with Dillon before he left, while I wanted to rush home and change clothes. I gave the photographs my attention for a couple of minutes, then grabbed the few papers from my desk corner, and took off for the parking lot.
Snitch
It was officially the weekend, and I was ready for some live entertainment. I whispered a “woo-hoo” to myself as I circled around back of Night Sticks to park. Sadly, the entertainment I sought was just the annual darting tournament. For Clay’s sake, I would marshal a little more enthusiasm when he threw his first dart. I scanned the partially full lot, but didn’t turn up Gideon’s Crossfire.
With Midnight ensconced in a space, I got out, beeped the doors locked, and scooted toward the entrance in my comfy toe-wiggling sneakers. My work clothes were tossed aside in favor of an apple-green knit shirt that just barely met my low-rider jeans, well-worn and torn at one knee. Did I mention it was officially the weekend?
Night Sticks is a sports bar and micro-brewery. It’s upscale as bars go, and the place doubles as a hangout for off-duty police officers. The proprietor is Sarge, a retired cop and sponsor of Gideon’s baseball team. Sarge keeps the team in uniforms and Golden Suds, the home-grown product of the brewery.
I sped in the door, past the restrooms, and stopped at the end of the entry hall. To my right, the bar was a long expanse of mahogany and brass; behind it, the kitchen. Spaced throughout the barroom, a half-dozen televisions hung from the ceiling. These six flat-screens were our windows to the world. Night Sticks supplied no others. The tournament brought out couples for Friday night dinner. The food here wasn’t bad. Pizza topped the menu, along with oversized sandwiches and shoestring fries. Scanning the busy room, I spied an open booth and took the four stairs to a stepped-up seating area that bent around two walls. I slid into the booth and spotted Gideon’s arrival five minutes later.
He stepped into the bar, looking like the day had been too long. A pretty blonde waitress greeted him, and they spoke for a minute, their expressions pleasant. He straightened his colorful tie, still loosely knotted at the collar of his denim shirt. She was new, and she’d already caught my eye. She introduced herself at nearby tables as Heidi, flitting around with the most amazing set of hooters I ever saw. Really, the inadequacies that abound in this world are staggering. This scene was repetitive in my life, and it therefore begged the question: Could they possibly be real? And, had Gideon dated her, too? I realized that was two questions, but I was entitled. I’ve been here so many times before, it’s getting tiresome.
He slipped away from her, searching the room. He gave me a wink when he saw me, and I returned his fond smile. He climbed the steps and spoke to a few friends along the way. He leaned over to kiss my check, then collapsed into the seat opposite me.
Our waitress appeared at the end of the table, introducing herself. Mindy was a mousy brunette, spindly and average in her Wonder-less B-cup. I liked her right away. She tended to our needs amiably and efficiently, delivering hot sandwich platters and cold mugs of Golden Suds.
The pub continued to fill with patrons, and the noise level grew. I saw Better Bully Baines shuffle in, wearing street clothes. The young detective on Elmore’s detail arranged his face into a scowl when he saw me, then folded himself into a chair at a long table already packed with other cops. Heidi with the hooters waited on him.
“Did you sign your statement and get fingerprinted?” Gideon got around to asking, seemingly renewed by the food and drink—and by the company, I hoped.
“I went down after lunch. How about you?”
“I stepped out around three-thirty while Foss was questioning Adam. Sherrie was a real terror,” he said plainly.
“You saw her?” This escaped my lips with a guilty twinge. Either she was still sizzling from our brief chat or seeing him rekindled it.
“I made some calls,” he began his explanation, “talked to some people, and came up with three names of so-called private collectors who might be behind something like this. I went up to her office with the information. She wasn’t in an overly cooperative mood; I made my case anyway. She listened, but I think that’s as far as it’ll go.”
In the next instant, my brain emotionally cross-circuited, and I blurted, “I just can’t see you with her.”
His mouth curled up at the corners. “You can’t see me with anyone but you.”
“I do like us the best,” I said, sitting taller.
He tipped his head to one side. “So do I.”
After silverware came to a rest and plates were pushed aside, Sherrie’s name came up again.
“Sherrie’s updating the board members on the progress of the investigation this evening. Dillon, of course, and the three lawyers will be included in the meeting.”
“They’ll tell Sherrie about Adam’s forgery?”
“My guess is they will.”
“So dinner with Adam may get canceled. Did you ask him yet?”
“Yes, and he accepted. Let the groveling begin.” Tipping his head back, he drew in a deep breath. “Thank God I was given a pass on tonight’s meeting. They’ll be deliberating for hours. Tomorrow, Dillon said he’ll have some answers for me on the exhibit—as if there’s still a chance we’ll get to keep it. We’re in deep, deep trouble, Wrenn. Those artifacts have got to be recovered, but I’m afraid this is bigger than the Havens’ police department can handle.”
I had to admit the department hadn’t shown me much in the last few days. He took his information on the private collectors to Sherrie, who was less than receptive. The scene itself yielded no clues, just one unconscious guard, who still wasn’t talking, as far as I knew. From Gideon’s viewpoint, I’d think the same thing. It must be a little daunting to know the solution to this theft with its international
flavor, million-dollar price tag, and students’ careers at stake hinged on our police force.
Not wanting to show disloyalty for one of the city departments that fell under the mayor’s supervision, nor feed Gideon’s depression either, I straddled the fence as a good politician often does. “K.C. would disagree with you. He has complete faith in his people. He told me all about it this afternoon.” When I didn’t think I swayed him, I got up on the fence’s top rail for a high-wire act. “Something will break loose soon. And Clay will be here. He may have the latest update.”
“Speaking of Clay,” Gideon said, nodding to the defending champion, engaged in conversation at the bar. “You’d better hit the sandbox before the match begins.”
Gideon knows of my short timeline with beer. Off I went to the ladies’ room.
Here’s what I know about playing darts. The center of the board is the bull’s eye and missing the board entirely would be embarrassing at this level. To this, the scorekeeper added that the match would be the best two out of three. The players would alternate turns and toss three darts each before the score was re-tallied.
The action took place on the lower level against the back wall. A lane was measured off and marked with tape on the wood-laminate floor. Clay approached the match, now underway, with his game face. His opponent was a guy with a bush of black beard, who darted for McCoy’s Bar across town. A chalkboard hung on the wall a safe distance away. Under columns for each player, the scorekeeper counted backwards from 301, doubling and tripling the numbered sections when it suited him, then lopping that figure off the total. There must be more to the scoring, I thought, than was initially revealed.
The audience, heavily sprinkled with officers, both in and out of uniform, gathered in for a closer view. A few of the cops I saw in the front office this afternoon were among them. All of a sudden, I missed Georgie Crandall. I scoured the spectators. No Puddin’.
Gideon stood behind me in the crowd watching the darters. I couldn’t mask a grin as I felt his warm finger slip into the back of my waistband. He pulled himself close, so as to hide his daring digit.
I clapped and cheered Clay on, watching faithfully, until Gideon’s lips caressed my ear. “Board meeting’s over. Sherrie’s here,” he said. “I’m going to hear what she has to say. You want to come?”
I turned, and, through a cadre of fans, found Sherrie, easily recognizable by her uniform and the thick French braid that was free of its barrette, to extend halfway down her back. Back by the door, Georgie filed in. Since Gideon seemed blissfully unaware Sherrie and I made our acquaintance—an acquaintance that might be described as a downward spiral, although spontaneous combustion seemed more accurate—I opted to keep it that way and vied for any update Georgie might provide. “Go ahead. I see someone I want to speak with.”
Gideon nodded and eased through the ringside crowd. Slipping away from the competition, I passed Hooters at the end of the bar. She applauded mightily, causing more than just her hands to be in motion.
Midway back, with no one around him, sat Georgie, using the rounded curl of the bar’s front edge as a backrest. He gave me a lackadaisical salute. His uniform blues were traded for casual clothes. I perched on the barstool next to him. He signaled Sarge. Georgie’s aftershave tickled my nose. He appeared freshly showered, his hair still a bit damp. The workout at the gym had been a vigorous one, I assumed.
“You’re finally here,” I said.
“Later than planned.”
He spied Sherrie with Gideon. “Your guy came in shortly after you left this afternoon.”
I tracked his gaze. Arms on the table, they leaned in to hear and be heard, in deference to the clamor. In my field of vision, I saw Bully Baines lift a finger, summoning Heidi.
“Yes, Gideon told me. And I know he went up to her office,” I said, so Georgie could let out his breath. Facing him, I continued, “She didn’t go to the gym because she was invited over to Eastwood to report to the board and a slew of attorneys.”
“Not much progress on that one. Still too soon to have feedback on the prints, so, probably not a fun time in Eastwood’s boardroom, I wouldn’t think.”
I wondered if he intended his last comment to be from the sergeant’s point of view or the board’s, then decided it really didn’t make any difference.
Sarge slid into the picture, a drink in each hand. He met sixty quite a while back. His hair was graying, his face showing wear, and his once-muscular physique softened, causing things to shift. Under his clingy white nylon shirt, he had man-boobs. Immediately, the thought jolted me. I asked myself sternly, God, Grayson, what is this obsession? It’s even crossing genders.
The barkeep set a standard mug of beer before Georgie and a thick icy cocoa concoction in a cocktail glass in front of me. I steered it closer. The glass was chilled. Night Sticks was getting highfaluting.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A chocolate martini. Try it.” Sarge cocked his head, showing a passel of crooked teeth. Someone called his name, and he slid back from view.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said to Georgie, lifting the glass. “It smells great, and how could anything with chocolate taste bad.” I sipped and let the cool thick chocolaty drink slide over my tongue. I sipped again, evaluating. “It’s good. Vodka and a chocolate liqueur.” I sipped again.
A roar went up in the corner. The scorekeeper announced Clay won the first leg. Georgie and I clinked our glasses together and drank to that.
“I’ve been thinking about something since I left you this afternoon. About something the officer on duty in the lobby said.”
His eyebrows climbed his forehead.
“He referred to you as a slow traffic cop, and so I wondered why a traffic cop would come into the office to do paperwork. To get statements signed and take fingerprints. Doesn’t make sense to me. Street cops don’t want desk duty.” I slid a sneaky look his way.
He took a swallow of beer before he answered. “They needed the help, and I’m a good guy. I volunteered.”
“No, there were plenty of guys there to help. So I asked myself, why you? Why did you come in to take care of me? When I got there, you were called specifically.”
“You got a theory of some kind, Grayson?”
“I do. You did it because Clay asked you. To help him keep a watch on me.” I eyeballed him suspiciously. Clay mentioned the name Georgie when he wanted an officer to run the Cutlass’s plate yesterday morning when we found it cockeyed on Rosemont’s lawn. He appeared quite comfortable asking Georgie to do a favor.
Georgie’s smile was contagious. He curbed his with a sip of beer.
“That’s why the business card and the helpful hints. You were the protective buffer between me and Clay’s former colleagues. It’s okay. I’ll play the game.” I leaned closer. “You know what, Puddin’?”
His face formed a question mark.
“I think you are a good guy, and I think you’re Clay’s inside snitch. Don’t deny it. You and Clay are tight.” I used the street term lightly. All the officers on the force were aware of Clay’s and Georgie’s friendship. No secret there. What had Clay said at Connery’s’ curb? The station was a cesspool for gossip. Insider information made its way out of the cesspool to Clay through Puddin’.
Without equivocation, he said, “Please, Grayson, covert operations specialist. It’s classier.”
“My mistake. Anything covert to share?”
“Elmore’s case took a bit of hit. The ballistics test came back confirming Clay’s gun is not the murder weapon.”
I was cheered by that initially, then felt my brows pull together. “Elmore could still claim Clay is the murderer. He just used another gun.”
“Claim is absolutely the correct word because, without the gun, that’s all he can do.”
“So, it’s harmless for Clay.”
“But we want to solve the case, Grayson. And to have any chance for prosecution of the real murderer, we need to find the g
un. So Elmore will be out there with a vengeance. You know he will. And still sniffing around Clay.”
Like a wild dog, I thought.
“Time of death has been narrowed,” he said, bringing me out of my funk. “Between midnight and two. And here’s something else to chew on. Quite a bit of blood was found on the jacket in the victim’s car. But it wasn’t the victim’s blood.”
I pulled up Rosemont’s outdoor scene. Time of death confirmed Clay’s suspicion. The dry earth under the Cutlass was an indicator of its arrival on the grounds before the rainstorm cut loose at two and blew open my French doors. Even as I rushed to shut out the wet, Trey lay dead on the foyer floor. I remembered Elmore sidetracking himself from my interview to examine a stained waist-length coat Officer Stooped Shoulders removed from the Cutlass.
“That’s interesting,” I said, puzzling over the jacket. “Someone was badly hurt along the way. Trey’s killer? Someone else? Is that all you’ve got?”
“I’m tapped out.”
With those words came a chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” from the onlookers packed into the corner, then muffled silence. The scorekeeper called out, “Triple.” Cheers erupted from the McCoy’s crowd. Georgie and I exchanged disappointed glances and downed another swig.
“Now I’m going to pry my boyfriend away from the clutches of that sergeant. You should know I’ll use force if necessary.” Spontaneous combustion or not, I felt I should make an appearance.
“She’ll kill you,” he said flatly.
“Think I can’t handle her?”
He shook his head fervently. “She’ll kill you.”
“She is pretty beefy.”
“She goes to the gym.”
“I go to the ladies’ room.” This brought a giggle from him. “After I do that, you watch me. Okay?”
I slid off the barstool, thinking it warmed up considerably in here, and trotted off around the corner. Outside the ladies’ room door, I paused. I forgot to thank Georgie for the chocolate martini.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 16