Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland)

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Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 8

by Christine Gael


  He snatched it and scanned it over before handing it back to her. "Yeah. Like I said, me and Mel were friends. He came to me, as a friend, asked me to loan him some money. I agreed.”

  She cocked her head, eyes narrowed. “You didn't say friends. You said you were acquaintances. Do you normally lend people you barely know tens of thousands of dollars out of the kindness of your heart?"

  "Look, I don't have time to play word games. Friends, acquaintances, whatever. I let the guy borrow some cash. End of story," he snapped.

  "Not really, though," she said, slipping the note back in the folder and pulling out some photographs. "The end of Mel's story is this."

  She held out the first picture. The one of Mel's office with the cheap, blood-soaked carpet.

  Frankie didn't flinch as he eyed the image, but he made no attempt to take it from her.

  "So Mel got himself into some shit. I'm not surprised. He had a gambling problem. Maybe he fucked over the wrong guy. All I know is he was paying me back so I had no reason to hurt him and even less of a reason to kill him. Do I need to call my lawyer?"

  She flipped another image in front of that one. It took a few seconds for it to sink in but, when it did, Frankie did more than flinch. He jerked back in his chair, making the metal legs screech against the floor as his face turned a sickly shade of gray. Then, he folded in half at the waist, burying his head between his designer suit pants as he sucked in deep breaths.

  "Ah, hell. That's—" He broke off and let out a muffled gag.

  She flicked the edge of the picture with her fingernail and tucked it back into the file with the rest of them.

  "Jesus fucking Christ, lady. You could warn a guy,” he managed as he continued to breathe through his nose.

  One thing was for sure. Frankie didn't have the stomach to do what had been done to Mel Walsh without blowing his milk and cookies all over the crime scene.

  "Look, Frankie. Let's be honest with each other, all right?" She scooted her chair closer to his and patted his back. "I don't care about your little racketeering business. Now, my guys in vice might, but we don't need to involve them in any of this...unless you think we need to?"

  He straightened, swiped his hand over his mouth and swallowed hard. "I don't think we do."

  "Good. If you just tell me who else you think Mel might have been beholden to financially…somebody not as nice as you, or maybe someone he’d done dirty, then we can both move along and forget we ever met. Deal?"

  It was bullshit, of course. If their investigation wound up pointing to Frankie down the line, she'd have no qualms about dragging his hide back in. But right now, he wanted out of here. His whole body was tense and primed for a mad dash to the nearest toilet. She might as well use that to her advantage.

  "You asking if he was into it with the mob?" he asked, his throat working as he eyed the folder in her hand with a mix of revulsion and fear.

  She didn't reply. She just kept her eyes locked on his.

  "I don't think I know. He was paying me back in installments and was only late a couple times. If he owed somebody who would do something…like that,” he jerked his chin toward the folder, averting his eyes, “he'd have paid them first.”

  She reached for another photo but before she could hold it out to him, he shot to his feet. Sweat slicked his broad forehead and his eyes went wide. She wondered for a second if he was about to go into a full-blown panic attack.

  "Look, I don't involve myself in the day to day. I got a couple guys that work for me, though. I can ask them if they heard anything, okay? I promise, I'll do that the second I leave here and get back to you."

  If he had more to offer in the way of information, she wasn't going to get it right now. She swiped at a wrinkle in her pants and then stood, nodding.

  "Okay, that sounds good, Frankie." She slid a hand into her pocket and he blanched. "Here's my number," she said gently as she held out a business card. "Call me as soon as you hear back. I don't want to have to come to your place, asking about things like that. Might give people the wrong impression, like you said."

  She didn't need to see his expression to know that the implied threat had hit home.

  Whoever had whacked Mel was a very bad egg. He didn't want the word out that he was helping the police locate that person.

  After talking to him, though, she was more convinced than ever that he had nothing to do with it. She almost felt guilty for using him this way, but the fact was, these gangster types all kept tabs on one another. If there was buzz on the street about the murder, Frankie would hear it. And it wasn't like he was an innocent. He held people over barrels for exorbitant interest and had clearly busted a nose or two in his lifetime. If she had to squeeze his balls a little to make him sing, so be it.

  Frankie scurried out of the interrogation room, polar opposite of the way he’d strutted in. She watched him rush toward the exit as ‘Los stepped out of the room behind the two-way mirror.

  "You're terrifying sometimes," he said, although his grin was one of pride.

  She led the way back toward their desks and sat, her mind still racing with the new information. "I went in thinking there was a slim chance it was him,” she shook her head firmly, “but no way. He’s got an alibi, and he almost hurled just looking at the photo.”

  "Could've been one of his thugs."

  "Nope. Not if Mel was paying. And by all accounts, he was. No motive.”

  "Agree," ‘Los said without hesitation.

  They couldn’t officially rule it out, but once his alibi checked out—and it would—they’d be back to square one.

  Again.

  "So let's contact his poker buddies and then focus on finding Mel’s lady friend. I’ll give Phyllis a call,” Lucky said. “Talk to her, see if anything else shakes loose now that she's had a little time to process.”

  “Sounds good. And hey, it’s Emmie’s birthday, by the way. Viv is making dinner and we’re having cake. She told me to tell you that it’s your job to be sure I make it for at least a while, and to come and eat.”

  Lucky rolled her eyes. “Why does it have to be on me? Emmie is your daughter. Seems like your job to make sure you show up for her birthday dinner.”

  “Right, but Viv knows me well enough to know I get lost in it sometimes. She knows if she enlists you, she’s got a better shot.”

  Lucky added the birthday party to her mental priority list. Mixing the personal stuff with the job stuff came at a price, but she hadn’t spent time with ‘Los’s kids in a while. It would do her heart good to see those sweet, innocent faces after the grittiness of the past few days.

  Right now, though? More grit on the menu, because it was time to head to the strip club…

  11

  An hour later, Lucky and ‘Los walked into Zanzi-Bar after flashing their badges to the bouncer in front. The sun was still blazing hot in the sky, but apparently, Lucky's assumptions about strip clubs needed some serious rethinking because she'd expected the place to be empty on a Tuesday afternoon.

  As they stepped into the air conditioned venue, though, she was surprised to find dozens of patrons scattered around the perimeter of the stage and a dozen more hunched over drinks at the bar.

  "Christ, these places are so depressing," ‘Los muttered.

  She nodded and trailed behind him as he led the way to the bar. A female bartender eyed them suspiciously and came over as they took a pair of seats on the end. Her low-cut halter-top hugged a pair of breasts so large for her slim frame that it was a wonder she didn't do a face-plant as she leaned toward them.

  "What can I do for you, Detectives?"

  ‘Los grinned. "I must need a makeover if you can spot me that easy. What do you think, Luck? Maybe we need to overhaul our look some?"

  She patted her ponytail and shrugged. "Nah, I don't care if they make me. Saves me the time of introducing myself. What's your name?" she asked.

  The bartender tapped her long, French-manicured nails on the sticky-looking wood and
shot a nervous glance to the entrance. "Christie."

  "Christie, is the owner of this fine establishment here?”

  “Nah, he’s only here on weekends. He has another place in Vegas and he spends weekdays there,” she said warily.

  “Maybe you can help us, then. We’re looking for a dancer that goes by the name of Brandi. You know anyone with that name?" ‘Los said, his posture relaxed, his tone conversational.

  Lucky watched the other woman carefully, taken aback when her heavily made-up face broke into a grin.

  "Serious?" Christie hitched a hip against one of the chrome coolers and ticked off on her fingers. "We got Brandy S., Brandy V., Brandy Alexander, Korean Brandy, Brandi with an 'i’." She rolled her eyes at the last one. “Stuck up bitch, that one. We call her Boojie Brandi,” she whispered, before continuing in a normal tone, "and last, but not least, Brandy Dix. Which one you looking for?"

  Lucky found herself holding back a rare grin. There was something about this girl she liked. Maybe because she reminded her of her sister Abby, with that no-nonsense attitude and smart smile.

  "That's a good question," ‘Los said, nodding. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his little notebook, leafing through until he found what he was looking for. "We don't have a last name, but apparently," he paused as he scanned the page, "she's got…large breasts and red hair, likely dyed that color."

  Lucky recognized the fact that he’d cleaned up Mel’s widow’s more colorful description and mentally applauded him. No point in offending their hostess.

  "Well, congratulations, Detective. That narrows it down to two," Christie said with a wink, her initial nerves at their presence seeming to dissipate as the fun of twenty questions with ‘Los took center stage. "Based on that description, it's either Korean Brandy or Brandi with an ‘i'."

  Lucky shot a glance to ‘Los and he nodded. "I'm gonna guess it's Brandi with an 'i', then. Is she here today?"

  "Nope," Christie said, straightening and snagging a plastic cup before filling it with what looked like cola. “Midweek afternoons are the trash shifts. Boojie Brandi wouldn't shake her narrow ass for these cheapskates. She's primetime all the way. Just ask her,” she added with a snort.

  Lucky nodded, fascinated in spite of herself. Too curious not to, she swiveled her head to check out the girl on stage.

  At first glance, the woman was young and attractive. Narrow waisted, curvy, and clearly working hard for her money as she shimmied. As Lucky narrowed her eyes for closer inspection, though, she realized that the woman hadn’t seen thirty in at least a decade and was well on her way to Cougarville.

  Christie followed Lucky's gaze and gestured with her free hand.

  "That's Belinda. She's super nice, but this is her last year, for sure. I heard Phil saying so the other day," she murmured. "Feel bad for her. I don’t think she ever had another job, you know?" Her eyes went soft, but she quickly shook it off. "Not my problem. I'm going to school to be a teacher. Almost done. Six more months and I'm out of this place anyway."

  "Congrats, Christie," ‘Los said, using her name to further establish their rapport. "Listen, we know you have to get back to work, but we do have a couple questions about Brandi. Do you know if she has a boyfriend? Older guy, maybe?"

  Christie laughed and took a sip of her drink. "Boyfriend isn't the word I'd use, but yeah, there's an old guy who comes by here couple times a week to see her. Mel's his name. Looks like my grandfather. Harmless, but then, the second you turn your back, he's slapping asses. Par for the course here." Her dimples faded, and realization dawned, and her brow creased. "Wait, is Brandi okay? Shit, she's a pain in the ass but—"

  "No, no. To our knowledge, she's fine," ‘Los reassured her quickly. "We're here because the guy you were talking about...Mel? He's been murdered. We’re talking to everyone close to him to try to figure out what might have happened. We hoped to catch Brandi and have a chat with her."

  She drew back in surprise. "Murdered? Are you sure? He was pretty old. Maybe—"

  "The body found outside MoMA? That was Mel," ‘Los said gently. Now that the victim’s identity had been confirmed, it would hit the news cycle any time now, if it hadn’t already.

  "Jesus," she breathed, her throat working as she swallowed hard. "That's awful. I saw something about it on TV but they didn't say it was Mel."

  The musical number playing on the stage a dozen yards away faded out, and ‘Los waited until a new song blared to life before continuing.

  "We really need to speak with Brandi as soon as possible. Do you know her last name or when she might be working next?"

  Christie nodded, but her eyes seemed faraway. "She’ll be here Thursday night. I don't know her last name but I can give you her phone number. There's a list back here in case someone calls in sick so we can try to get a replacement. Hang on."

  Christie made her way to the other side of the bar, pulling a laminated sheet out from behind the register. She came back and rattled off the phone number while ‘Los jotted it down. Then, she set the sheet down on the bar, her face twisted into a frown.

  "Is she a suspect? Because he was sweet on her and took good care of her. Gave her cash…jewelry, sometimes. Like a sugar daddy. I seriously don't think she would've hurt the guy."

  "We don't think so, either. But if Mel spent a good amount of time with her, he might have confided about some troubles he's been having. She could provide us with some important leads. We also need to find out if maybe she has another sugar daddy. Or a boyfriend. Someone who might not have liked her relationship with Mel," ‘Los said.

  "That makes sense. She's only been here about six months. I don't think I've ever seen her leave with anyone else, though.” She tugged at a golden curl, looking agitated. "Sometimes the girls stop in on Tuesdays to pick up their paychecks. Should I tell her to call you if I see her?"

  ‘Los pulled out a business card and handed it to her. "That would be great, thanks. And if you think of anything else, please don't hesitate to get in touch."

  She took the card gingerly and chewed on her bottom lip.

  "I feel awful about Mel. He didn’t deserve to die. I think he was just lonely, you know? The attention made him feel special." Her blue eyes flashed with something like sorrow as she tucked the card into her halter-top. "I've got to get back to work. If I don't start selling some drinks, I’m going to hear about it at the end of my shift. I hope you guys find who did this."

  They stood and thanked her again before heading back into the oppressive summer heat.

  The second they made it to the car, Lucky tugged out her cell phone. Still nothing from Ed. She blew out an impatient sigh and dialed the number the bartender had given them for Boojie Brandi. On the ninth ring and with no voicemail greeting kicking in, Lucky hung up with a sigh.

  “Not surprising,” she said to ‘Los. “Lots of people don’t pick up calls from numbers they don’t know. Let’s hope she stops into work for her check, finds out what happened and wants to help. If nothing pops in the next day or so, we can talk to the owner, press for access to the personnel files and get a home address on her.”

  “Roger that,” ‘Los replied, pulling into traffic and turning the a/c on full blast.

  Lucky made a second call, this one to Phyllis Walsh, and was taken aback when a male voice answered the phone with a curt, “Yes?”

  “This is Detective Strickland calling for Mrs. Walsh, please.”

  “We’re planning my father’s services and aren’t to be disturbed for the next few days. You need something else from us, call Sal,” Xavier snapped before abruptly disconnecting.

  Sanctimonious little prick.

  “Didn’t go well?” ‘Los asked, sparing her a quick glance as she pocketed her phone with a grimace.

  “He’s guilty of something. Maybe not his father’s murder, but I don’t trust him one bit,” she said, pointing one of the vents to blow air directly at her face.

  Xavier Walsh rubbed her the wrong way, but getting all in kn
ots about it would only take her focus off Mel. The son might not want to help find his father’s killer, but Phyllis Walsh surely deserved to know why something so horrific had happened to her husband.

  When they arrived back at the station, they spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the Walsh family finances. It was a slow, ultimately thankless job that wound up providing little information aside from confirming Mel’s penchant for betting on the ponies and bringing to light his potential frozen custard addiction, as was evidenced by his almost daily expenditure of $4.75 at Custy’s Frozen Treats.

  By the end of it, she was irritated, hungry and out of patience.

  “We’d better head out if we want to make dinner on time,” she grumbled, shoving back her chair as she glanced at her watch.

  ‘Los started, looking up from his computer screen.

  “Yeah, wow, time really flies when you’re having fun.” The sarcasm was thick as he rubbed at his eyes wearily. “You riding with me to the house or flying solo?”

  They’d both gotten emails from the brass to pass off any additional research to the second shift guys and curtail additional overtime until they had more information from Bisby or a solid lead to pursue, and so far, they had nothing. Which meant they’d not only make the birthday dinner, but barring any news, they’d be able to stay all night.

  She wouldn’t drag ‘Los away from his kid’s party early to chauffeur her back to her car, but she also couldn’t bring herself to commit to the whole evening at the Figueroa house.

  Not tonight.

  Her stomach churned as she met her partner’s gaze. “My mother would roll over in her grave if I showed up to a dinner party empty-handed, so you go ahead. I’m going to stop off and pick up a couple things. See you in an hour or so?”

  ‘Los flipped off his computer monitor and grabbed his car keys from the desk drawer.

  “See you then.”

  12

 

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