A Nose for Justice

by Rita Mae Brown

  Lonnie’s eyes fell to her ample bosom during this story and he really was listening but he couldn’t help himself, which made Amelia laugh all the louder.

  Pete put his forefinger to his temple, by way of salute, and walked across the crowded room to the receiving line. “Could I get anyone a drink?” He looked down. “Baxter, King?”

  “God, yes.” Jeep fanned herself for a moment. “Scotch on the rocks. Tell the bartender it’s for me.”

  “Mags?”

  “Just tonic water, I think. Lime.”

  Enrique nodded. “Corona Extra.” He looked to Carlotta. She nodded. “Two. Perhaps a glass for my bride.”

  “Water,” the dogs barked.

  Pete found a waiter and told him to bring a table to put behind the receiving line so the folks there could put their drinks down. Then Pete asked him to bring two bowls of water for Baxter and King. After, he strode over to the bar and gave his order, handing over five dollars for a tip.

  Just then Egon Utrecht burst from the kitchen, bellowing orders to someone who had forgotten a bowl of sauce. Egon, sweating profusely, saw Pete and nodded. The famous chef was nervous, shouting at staff, a real whirlwind. As he walked by, a pair of guests handed him glasses of champagne, which he downed in a gulp.

  Given Jeep’s status, Egon had cause to be nervous. He wanted the guests to be talking about the food until next year when he’d try to outdo this year.

  Within five minutes, Pete returned to the receiving line with drinks, a waiter in tow to help carry them through the crowd. He also brought napkins.

  “Thank you.” Jeep reached for her scotch. “I’m parched.”

  The dogs wagged their tails as they drank.

  “How much longer will you all stand here?” Pete asked. “I can bring chairs. It’s a long time to be on your feet.”

  Jeep looked down her small receiving line. Nearly all the guests had arrived. “How about another ten minutes and then let’s eat?”

  Before Pete left, Mags said, “I liked meeting your parents.”

  “Thanks. I was lucky. I got a good pair.”

  People sat at the various tables, the head table had a small model of a P-47 on it. Once Jeep and her family finally sat down, they could barely eat as people kept stopping by to talk. Every time Carlotta threw her arms up to hug someone for the third, fourth, or fifth time, her bracelets jingled a happy tune.

  Mags looked out over the room and thought what a tribute to her great-aunt. Sure, she had more money than Midas, but she had done so much good with it. Mags knew she could never match her great-aunt that way, but she hoped she, too, would wind up making a good life, one that reached out to help others, one filled with friends and laughter, one filled with real people.

  Jeep nodded to the band, now filing onto the dais. Soon the tables would empty and the dance floor would fill with people. The bandleader tapped his baton, the trumpeter stood and blew a few merry notes.

  Escorted onto the stage by Enrique, Jeep acknowledged the crowd’s cheers. After wishing everyone a booming happy New Year, she cited by name those few veterans in the crowd. The room applauded thunderously. The women guests cheered especially for the three female veterans.

  Jeep spoke in her characteristically clear, pleasant voice. “Folks, don’t listen to the naysayers, the crybabies, the special interests. Sure, times are hard but believe me and those of us in this room over seventy when we tell you, we’ve seen harder times than this.

  “Forget Washington,” Jeep continued in her inspired oratory. “That’s the problem, not the answer.” At this, her speech was interrupted by people whistling and cheering. “We’ll pull through. Leave it to the people. I’ll do my part and I expect you’ll do yours. Forward!”

  The cheers roared and men stomped the floor with their heavy boots.

  She held up her hands for quiet. “Egon Utrecht, please come out here.”

  It took a moment for a casino employee to fetch Egon from the kitchen. Emerging through the door, he looked around, then smiled as if by afterthought. He moved through the crowd.

  Jeep extended her arm in his direction. “Our compliments to the chef.” Cheers followed.

  He stopped and bowed to the hostess, put up his right hand like Mussolini used to when driving through the crowds, and bowed to the assembled guests before returning to the kitchen. He was again handed champagne glasses as he passed tables.

  Jeep wrapped up her speechifying. “All right. This is Reno. Let’s party!”

  At that, the band struck up “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and the dance floor was flooded with enthusiastic couples, and a few singles.

  Having eaten whatever was given them (or had fallen) from the table, Baxter and King watched. Mags put the dachshund on her lap. Pete asked Jeep to dance. He was a good dancer, whirling her by his mother and father, who were also dancing. For the next song, he asked Mags.

  When the band had started, Darryl Johnson and Craig Locke walked into the kitchen.

  “Egon,” Darryl called to the surprised large man holding a ladle. “This is a triumph. If we can get a room here, would you be willing to oversee our annual company dinner?”

  Egon, eyes nervously darting, calmed himself. “Of course.” A champagne glass, half full, sat by a pot.

  “This really is the best banquet meal I’ve ever had.” Craig complimented him.

  “Thank you.” Egon set down his ladle beside the large boiling pot.

  “We’ll be in touch.” Darryl left, Craig in his wake.

  One hour later, the party had reached a crescendo. The various dogs either ran around the room or had fallen asleep under their masters’ chairs.

  Pete made sure to dance with his mother. Then he danced with ex-classmate Amelia, who pumped him about Lonnie, who was six years younger than they were. Next, he asked to dance with the three women veterans. Pauline Winters he wheeled onto the floor, and she waved her hands to the music. The other dancers came by, one by one, to seize her hand or kiss her on the cheek.

  Mags watched Pete’s every move.

  Jeep observed her great-niece. “Ever notice, sweetie, how a real man never has to advertise?”

  “Aunt Jeep, I’ve met so few.”

  This elicited a deep laugh, then Jeep said, “We’ve got ’em by the squadrons here in Nevada.”

  At one point, Pete took Lonnie by the elbow, whispered a few words, then Lonnie also asked to dance with the lady veterans, as well as a few of the widows in the room. Somehow that’s when one minds being a widow the most, at a dance when you need a drink from the bar. If another man doesn’t notice, a polite older lady is out of luck. Then, too, so many husbands and wives of the older generation loved to dance. With her partner gone, many a widow sat. But not at Jeep’s party.

  Having a strong mother and two independent sisters, Pete had learned early. He understood a woman’s need for attention—not the obvious sexual kind, but the small courtesies that made a woman feel wanted and special.

  After a break filled with live rock music, the big band was up again, playing “The White Cliffs of Dover.” This sentimental song from the war could reduce anyone from the British Isles to tears and not a few Americans as well. After making his way back to Mags, Pete held her tight, but not too tight, as they glided around the dance floor.

  “Did I tell you that you are the most beautiful woman in the room and the most fascinating?”

  “Now I know you’re fibbing. Aunt Jeep is the most fascinating.”

  “She’ll have to share that honor with you.” He put his cheek next to hers.

  A scream from the kitchen stopped him short. Pete pulled away for a moment and saw one of the chef’s assistants run out from the back in a panic. Dr. Carl Detweiler, sitting this dance out, stood as the assistant reached him and gestured wildly. They both ran to the kitchen.

  “Mags, I’ll be back.”

  The band played on. Lonnie excused himself to Amelia and hurried behind Pete.

  Baxter and King reached th
e kitchen first. Any scream will alert a dog, and now all the dogs in the place were barking.

  Egon rolled on the kitchen’s spotless tile floor, his white chef’s topper a few feet away. In obvious pain, he foamed at the mouth.

  Just inside the door, Baxter put his head down, did not touch the suffering man. “Bitter. Bitter smell.”

  “He’s dying,” King said matter-of-factly.

  Egon’s eyes rolled back, violent tremors shook his body, then the massive frame lay still.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Friday’s Reno Gazette-Journal ran a well-written article about the collapse and suspected poisoning of celebrity chef Egon Utrecht. As the reporter actually had been at the party to cover it, the details proved accurate. The quotes from shocked eyewitnesses jumped off the page.

  Egon’s assistant chef, Lisa Giogionides, said, “He clutched his throat, made a strangling sound, and collapsed.” A waiter who wished not to be identified reported, “Egon had been knocking back champagne most of the night. He had one temper tantrum after another.” What the reporter didn’t include was, “I hated the son of a bitch.” Jeep Reed was quoted: “What an enormous talent and sorrow to die so young. Our hearts go out to his family.”

  Dr. Carl Detweiler, the pulmonary specialist on the scene, was quoted as saying, “His death is deeply suspicious. I do not think it was natural but, of course, we all await the autopsy report.”

  The coroner’s slate was full after a rash of street deaths. In the latest bout of cold weather, some of the local homeless had frozen to death. The coroner’s report on Egon’s death would be issued at the earliest by Friday night or Saturday morning.

  A smaller article buried deeper in the first section of the paper outlined the difficulties authorities faced in trying to locate and house the homeless in shelters. Many refused to go to the Salvation Army, as they emphatically did not wish to hear about salvation in any form. They preferred hunger to prayer. Other shelters were full up. These days, whole families were destitute and homeless.

  Not too many people paid attention to that story since the possible murder of a celebrity chef commanded more attention, especially coming on the heels of the killing of Oliver Hitchens. Tongues were wagging.

  This was big news.

  From the passenger seat, Lonnie read the paper aloud as Pete cruised down dilapidated Fourth Street to Teton Benson’s apartment. They’d yet to find the mysterious man who’d bought two acres in what would become Horseshoe Estates.

  After parking next to the curb, Pete knocked on Benson’s shabby door, then tried the knob to see if the door was unlocked. No luck.

  This was the officers’ first visit when Jugs was open. The two policemen walked into the neighboring topless bar.

  A thin young man—the bartender—with an equally thin beard, glanced up to see the men in uniform. “Hi.”

  Behind him women paraded, none of them exhibiting their natural breasts. Every single woman had had surgical enhancements.

  “Do you know Teton Benson, lives next door?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah. He in trouble?”

  “No. We’re hoping we can save him from trouble,” Pete replied genially.

  The young fellow kept polishing a glass. “He’s not using. Tets is clean.”

  “That’s good to hear. Do you have any idea where he is? We really need to find him.”

  “Last week I saw him leave with his duffel bag, and the mail’s been piling up. Didn’t see him get in his car, but he usually parked it on the street.”

  Although usually quiet, Lonnie spoke. “Did Mr. Benson ever talk to you about land investments?”

  The fellow laughed loudly. “Tets? Hell, he could barely pay his rent. I’m hoping now that he’s clean he can hold a job. Maybe it makes sense to move on from here. Too many people know his rep, you know?”

  “Did you ever see anyone unusual go into his apartment? By that I mean if they looked, say, a little better off than Tets.”

  “No. Even though he had family in town. He embarrassed them. I never saw anyone stop by for a visit.”

  “Did he talk about his family?”

  “It’s not like we were best friends.” The slight fellow stopped a moment. “All he ever said was he’d had every advantage and had blown it, and that his family was sick of him.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  Back in the squad car, Pete said to Lonnie, “We’re going to have to track down other Bensons in Washoe County.” They headed to the other side of town.

  “Let’s be glad his last name isn’t Smith.” Lonnie scribbled Benson in his notebook. “Jeep sure took masterful control of that mess last night, didn’t she?”

  Jeep had stopped the band once she knew what had happened to Egon Utrecht. Requesting her guests to remain seated temporarily, she’d asked Pete if he needed to question everyone. With six hundred guests, Pete let them all head home. He had all their names on Jeep’s invitation list.

  “Jeep Reed can handle just about anything,” said Pete. “You ever see the planes she used to fly? Pilots actually flew them, controlled them. No computer chips. They had to have physical strength. Impresses the hell out of me. Anyway, I’m glad we questioned the staff before their stories got cloudy. As it was, some were scared and others were glad he was dead.”

  “Lisa Giogionides seemed close to Utrecht,” said Lonnie. “I guess she was his apprentice, but he never mentioned anything to her about land purchases. Maybe that’s not so weird, but most people can’t resist bragging about a good investment. Still, one thing I thought interesting in her statement was when she said Utrecht had been increasingly irritable and worried for the last week. She thought it had to do with Ms. Reed’s upcoming party. He was hoping to make all the gourmet magazines or whatever. I think there’s more to it.” Lonnie fell silent as Pete pulled into a parking lot. “Ah, Jonas Larkin.” Lonnie looked at the small wooden sign by the front door. “Office is closed.”

  “Dammit.”

  “Probably working.”

  “We’ll come back later. Leave a message on his answering machine, will you, Lonnie? Just say we’d like to chat again, slippery creep. Don’t say that.”

  As Lonnie was dialing the number, Pete again crossed the bridge over the Truckee, the water running strong now. He parked the SUV in front of Anthony Diamond’s high-rise.

  The doorman greeted Pete with his ever-present smile. “Deputy Meadows.”

  “Hi, Chaz. Is Mr. Diamond here?”

  “No. He left last week. Said he was going to Maui for two weeks. Lucky devil.”

  Pete smiled, palmed him five, and climbed back in the car. “Another one gone. Diamond went to Hawaii.”

  The last person Pete and Lonnie called upon was the nurse, Kylie Prentiss. She looked like she’d eaten a prune when she saw them. Again, her responses to their questions were terse.

  As they drove back to HQ, Lonnie asked, “Do you think it’s us she’s afraid of, or someone else?”

  “She wasn’t all that happy on our first visit,” said Pete.

  Back at their desks, Pete and Lonnie phoned the remaining three purchasers of land.

  The doctor in Las Vegas seemed calm. This was the first time Pete had spoken to him.

  Lonnie reached the elderly lady in Carson City who bitched him out for bothering her again. However, he did manage to wrangle out of her who it had been that advised her to buy the property at Horseshoe Estates.

  “My grandson.”

  “And what is his name, ma’am?” Lonnie asked.

  “Jonas Larkin.”

  “Slippery, our Jonas, like I said,” Pete replied when Lonnie told him.

  Their last stop of the day was at a Virginia City clothing shop. Again, its owner swore the real estate purchase was just dumb luck. She sounded about as convincing as a congressman who has just switched votes on a highly public issue.

  After, the two men sat silently in the car.

  “If I were a smoker, this would be the idea
l time for a cigarette.” Pete blew out his cheeks, then changed the subject. “Amelia’s something, isn’t she?”

  “Got a date with her tomorrow night.”

  “And you waited this long to tell me?”

  “Lot going on.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? Lonnie, nervous people make other people nervous, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not nervous. I know she’s pretty unusual, owning a construction company, but she’s hot.” He put his finger to his thigh and made a hissing sound.

  “I’m not talking about that kind of nervous. I mean Egon Utrecht kind of nervous.”

  “Oh, yeah. Good chance that Teton Benson took off because he’s scared, or smart in some way we don’t yet know. As for Anthony Diamond, you know he’s pretty smart. He drives a Bentley.” Lonnie had checked his records.

  “That’s over the top.” Pete grimaced.

  “I want a Dodge Ram half-ton. No extended cab or that crap. A real truck. Black with a gold pinstripe and a mascot, a bucking bronc. Leather interior. Great sound system. Bentley’s are for old rich men. And if I have an air mattress I can use the eight-foot bed for”—he paused, looked heavenward—“those intimate moments.”

  “I’d wait until spring.” Pete laughed but thought it was a pretty good idea. “Okay, let’s find Teton’s family.”

  Turned out there were eighteen people with the surname Benson in Washoe County. From the car, Pete and Lonnie started making calls.

  Ten minutes later, Pete got out of the car and stretched. “All we do is sit on our asses in this squad car here. Drives me crazy.”

  He took a five-minute walk, came back, and started calling more Bensons. He also phoned Mags.

  “Sorry to leave you last night.”

  “You saw us to the car,” Mags said. “How long did you stay?”

  “Until one.”

  “Utrecht was poisoned, wasn’t he?”

  “Looks like. Ready for the shooting range tomorrow?”

  “I am. Pete, isn’t someone taking a terrible chance killing Egon like that, at a big party?”