by N. C. Lewis
Frustrated, he leaned back in his chair, eyes staring at the ceiling. There were a lot of cases in the Austin Police Department's unsolved file, a dozen or more of which he'd worked on. They haunted him now, each filling his mind with grotesque images of death and decay.
When Nick signed on as a police officer, he thought he'd solve every case, crack every crime. And he might have, if he had the time, but it doesn't work like that—detectives rarely have time. There is always another case pressing for attention. Some unsolved cases went back to Nick's early career. He still dreamed about them years later, knew he missed something, but couldn't figure out what.
"Some of those cases," he muttered out loud, "will follow me into retirement."
"I hope that's not any time soon."
Nick swiveled around in his chair. Detective Mary Wilson, her arms folded, grinned back. "You're not thinking of hanging up your hat on the Austin Police Department, are you?"
"Not a chance," he replied returning her smile. "Well, not until you become chief. Then my work will be done."
Detective Wilson's eyes shone. "Oh, so you're daydreaming on the job?"
"You've heard of power napping? Well, this is power thinking."
Detective Wilson laughed, her dark eyes twinkling with life. Her eyes used to twinkle that way when she was close to cracking a case, thought Nick. Nowadays, he realized morosely, they hardly twinkled. He guessed, like him, she'd seen too much.
"So what are you power thinking about?" Detective Wilson asked with curiosity.
Nick indicated with his eyes the folder on the desk.
"I won't ask you where you got that," she said with a knowing smile. "But I guess you already know this, there's not much in there to go on."
"That's what I discovered. Do you have anything new?"
"As it happens I do."
Nick sat up straight. "What?"
"The medical examiner didn't find any marks on the body."
"No signs of a struggle?"
"Not a scratch."
"You figure Floyd knew his killer?"
Detective Wilson nodded.
"What about the wife?" Nick asked, already knowing the answer.
"Not a chance."
"Then who?"
Detective Wilson shrugged. "They found this in his jacket pocket." She handed Nick a photograph blown up to the size of a letter size sheet of paper. "You didn't get this from me," she said with a wave as she turned to leave.
Nick squinted at the image, turned it on its side, and drummed his fingers on his desk. It was a photograph of a torn scrap of paper, on which in a rather unusual handwritten script, were the words in bold black letters:
I SAW WHAT YOU DID, AND I KNOW WHO YOU ARE—CB
Chapter 23
Nick was still staring at the photograph when Chambers returned with a supersized cup of iced coffee in his hand. "Got enough caffeine in here to take me to the end of the day, and I filled up on my unhealthy carbs. What you got there, boss?" he said, taking a seat.
Nick tossed the photo across the desk. "The medical examiner found this in the jacket pocket of Floyd Adams."
Chambers took a large gulp from his cup, picked up the photograph, stared hard, then took another gulp. "Who is CB?"
"You tell me."
"You're the detective."
"Beats me." Nick sighed.
"Me too," Chambers acknowledged without much interest. "I say we get back to our lollipop work."
That wasn't what Nick wanted to hear, but Chambers was right; they had a job to do. A job which Lieutenant Kostopoulos closely monitored. "What school visits do we have lined up for next Friday?" Nick growled.
Chambers didn’t answer; instead he peered at the photograph again and burped. After several moments he looked up. "Detective King, did you notice that?" He pointed a pudgy finger at the far edge of the image.
Nick squinted. "Looks like a mark of some sort, maybe a logo."
"Bingo!" cried Chambers, getting to his feet. "I've seen it before."
"Where?"
"Moonies Burger Bar."
◆◆◆
It was a little after midday when Nick and Officer Chambers knocked on a door at the side entrance of Moonies Burger Bar. The door flew open. A man in yellow pants pulled a garbage can, overflowing with scraps, through the narrow doorway.
"Austin Police," Nick said, flashing his ID. "I'd like to speak with the manager."
"Inside." The man grunted, shoving by the two men and dragging the garbage can along a dirt track toward a dumpster.
They stepped inside to be met by a short, barrel-chested man with penetrating eyes and a deep voice. "This is the kitchen area. Members of the public are not allowed back here."
Again, Nick flashed his ID. "Are you the manager?"
"Yeah, I'm the manager. What is this about?" the man asked. "We're gearing up for the lunchtime rush. This is our busiest time of the day."
Nick reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph. "I won't take much of your time, sir. This is part of a routine investigation. Look at this photograph."
The man took the image and stared at it for several seconds. Nick watched him closely, looking for signs of nervousness or anxiety. He saw neither.
"That's a bit threatening. Fancy handwriting, though," the man said at last. "Anything else?"
Nick pointed to the corner of the image. "Recognize that?"
The man squinted hard, reached into a pocket for a pair of spectacles, then squinted again. "Sure," he said at last. "I'd recognize it anywhere. That's part of our logo! I'd say that message was written on one of our takeout bags. This ain't about littering is it, 'cause I always tell—"
"No it's not about littering," Nick interrupted, taking back the photograph.
But before he could fire off his next question, Chambers spoke up. "Are you CB?"
"Hey! What is this?" the man bristled. "I told you it's written on one of our takeout bags, but I didn't write that note, and you ain't saying I did."
Nick changed the direction of the conversation, trying to take the sting out of Officer Chambers' question. "Sir, do you have any workers whose initials are CB?"
"Are you kidding me? I pay the workers cash. Half of them don't have names, at least not ones that make any sense." He pointed to a tall man with broad shoulders and green tattoos along his neck flipping burgers. "That guy is one of the old-timers, been working here on and off for two years. I still ain't got a clue about his name… I run a business not some kumbaya experiment and if—"
"What about your regular customers?" interrupted Chambers. "They have names, don't they?"
"Mister!" The man placed his hands on his hips. "We go through five thousand of those paper takeout bags a day. I can't keep track of customers' names. Almost anyone in this part of the city might have written that note. Hell, someone might have grabbed a used bag from a garbage can."
Nick opened his mouth to ask another question, but the little man raised his hand. "Listen, I gotta get back to work. Direct any further questions to my lawyer."
Chapter 24
When Amy walked into the Bellowing Spoon at lunchtime that day, the headwaiter led her to a private room at the back of the restaurant.
"This is where we serve our special guests," the headwaiter had said, leading her up a narrow flight of stairs. "Very peaceful and away from the hustle and bustle of the main restaurant."
It was a broad, elegantly furnished room with expansive views of Congress Avenue. A single, long table stood in the center with small bouquets of flowers at either end, and crystal decanters filled with water. Silver cutlery was laid out at each place setting. Several board members sat around the table chatting, including Dr. Jeffery Stubbs.
"Amy, over here," called Miles, standing up and hurrying to the door. "Edwina isn't here yet; she's running a little late." He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "Dr. Stubbs will bring up the subject of adding both our firms to the museum's approved list. If he is
successful, you and I will have more business than we can cope with."
That sounded good to Amy, as long as the museum business didn't come with Dr. Stubbs attached. She settled into a seat next to Miles and glanced around.
"Why Amy, you made it!" said Dr. Stubbs. He sat directly across the table. "Let me introduce you to my fiancée, Georgina Lovesey." He tilted his head to the young woman sitting by his side. Amy noticed she wore no engagement ring.
The woman nodded but didn't smile, staring through eyes that appeared to calculate the net worth of the clothing Amy wore. Then, with a start, Amy realized she knew the woman. "We've met before, haven't we?"
It was a moment before the woman responded, and when she did, her tone was condescending. "I don't believe so. I'm sure I would recall you."
Then Amy remembered. "Cherry Tree Towers Hotel! Georgina, you work at the reception desk for the executive wing. Patrick Crenshaw is a good friend. He's your manager, isn't he?"
Georgina's eyes grew wide, and she appeared to shrink in stature. "Yes," she mumbled, then turned to make small talk with Dr. Stubbs.
Miles touched Amy's arm and in a hushed whisper said, "That woman over there, the one with the jet-black, shoulder-length hair, that's Dr. Hilary Hale, the chair of the museum board. She is sitting next to Dr. Jillian Livingston, another senior board member. Dr. Livingston controls the museum's purse strings."
"So sorry I'm late."
Amy glanced toward the door to see a tall, slim woman wearing denim overalls with her hair swept up under a knotted, red-and-white handkerchief. The woman held a half-smoked cigar in her right hand. "My class ran over! One of my students needed a little creative input."
"Not to worry," boomed Dr. Stubbs. "Edwina, you are sitting at the head of the table."
Edwina Lutz bustled over to her seat. "Thank you for waiting. It is such an honor to be your guest here today. I am especially privileged to be one of only a handful of visiting artists employed at your museum."
As Edwina sat down, Dr. Hale rose to her feet. "This is an informal gathering of board members and guests to show our appreciation for your generous contribution to the Bullock Texas State History Museum. There is no agenda this lunchtime, so please, everyone, enjoy each other's company."
Edwina beamed. "Thank you. Your support is much appreciated. As a mark of my gratitude, I'd like to invite you all to my studio this coming Saturday evening. I know it is at short notice, but I don't open my workspace to visitors, ever. Please check your day planners and text me if that's agreeable."
Amy didn't need to check her schedule, she was going, and if Nick was free, so was he. She couldn't imagine what it would be like in an artist's studio. "Perhaps," she muttered to Miles, "some of Edwina's creativity will rub off on my staging business."
Several waiters entered the room carrying silver platters of soup. They ladled it, steaming and hot, into the waiting bowls, and departed as silently as they had arrived.
The gathered diners sipped their soup, engaged in polite chitchat, and as it warmed their stomachs, relaxed. Conversations about the museum, budgets, and finances mingled with talk about art, and creativity, and inspiration.
Amy was enjoying herself when she overheard Dr. Stubbs speaking about the discovery of Floyd Adams.
"And that's how I found him," said Dr. Stubbs, shaking his head. "I did my best to help, but it was to no avail…" His voice dropped an octave. "Floyd Adams, our dear friend and museum employee, was dead—shot through the head in cold blood!"
The entire room fell silent. Georgina's mouth hung open. Dr. Hale leaned forward, her eyes soft and watery. Dr. Livingston dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. Edwina, head cocked to one side, let a tear run down her cheek. It dripped off her chin onto the table.
Dr. Stubbs was in his element, had the entire room's attention and now gesticulated wildly. "Next thing I knew the police wanted to hold me in a cage like a common criminal!"
"A cage!" exclaimed Dr. Livingston.
"Not literally, of course, although I wouldn't put it past those numbskulls. They had us corralled in an area of the cafeteria." He nodded toward Amy and Miles. "Those two were with me; they can vouch for the accuracy of my statement. The police expected us to wait while they carried out their investigation."
"What for?" asked Dr. Hale.
"They wanted us to wait to give a statement. I found the body, did what I could, and a lazy, good-for-nothing detective accuses me of murder!"
Dr. Hale's voice filled with incredulity. "The officer accused you of killing Floyd Adams?"
"Not exactly, but he might as well have. Anyway, I was with my fiancée when Floyd Adams died." He glanced at Georgina. "Wasn't I, sweetie?"
Georgina shifted in her seat. "Yes," she said uncertainly. "You were with me."
"It's bad enough," Dr. Stubbs continued with a resigned smile, "when you hear about shootings in some dimly lit street, but inside the museum! My heart goes out to Mrs. Adams, but we will have to beef up museum security."
There was a general murmur of agreement.
The serving staff returned, this time with the main course—turkey breast, roast potatoes, glazed-honey carrots with sugar snap peas tossed in butter with a side salad of leafy greens drizzled with a mixture of balsamic and extra-virgin olive oil.
"What I want to know," asked Edwina when the waitstaff had departed, "is what happened to my figurines?"
"They are still missing," replied Dr. Hale with a sigh. "I hope they will turn up but fear the murderer sold the items on the black market."
"To whom?" asked Dr. Stubbs, sitting up straight.
Dr. Hale thought for a moment. "To a dealer or private collector, that's where most of the stolen artifacts end up."
That was too much for Edwina, for she broke out into bitter sobs. "It's been over ten years since my last creation. I poured everything I had into those figurines—gave it all! Now I'm emotionally and physically exhausted… and financially ruined."
There was a long silence broken by Dr. Livingston tapping a spoon against a wineglass. "While it is true the figurines are no longer in the possession of the museum," she began carefully, "it is also the case the museum took out an insurance policy. Whether the pieces show up or not, you will still get paid. And the museum will match that amount for the capture of Floyd Adams' murderer."
Then, as if a switch flipped, Edwina's sobs dried up, replaced by a glittering smile. "That is so good to know. The muse is a fickle friend. I've no idea when it will move me to create again."
Chapter 25
"Got some news," Amy said as Nick stepped into the hallway of their home.
It was a little after six p.m. on a Friday evening on what had been a long day in a long week. Nick slipped his jacket in the closet, let out a quiet sigh, but on seeing the eager anticipation in his wife's eyes, smiled. "Come here, honey," he said, giving her a hug. "What news?"
"Guess."
Nick stepped back, gazing into his wife's eyes. They were glittering. "Our grandchild?"
"Nope. Nothing new to report there. Victoria's being tight-lipped on whether it is a boy or a girl, but that's not it—guess again."
Nick glanced at his wife. After over twenty-two years together he could read her face, most of the time. There was a slight smile to her lips, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. She had something that would surprise him. At least, he thought with relief, it's not more bad news, then he took a wild guess. "Zach and Victoria are multimillionaires after the stock price of his company rebounded, and they've offered to buy us a mansion in the British Virgin Islands?"
"How did you guess?" Amy sounded disappointed.
That shocked Nick. "Victoria and Zach are millionaires and we have a— "
"Fooled ya!" Amy grinned. "Don't be silly! Guess again."
Nick was warming to the silly game. It was one thing he loved about Amy—her playful nature. Even when he was in the foulest mood, she lifted his spirits, made him see the lighter side of things.
"T
hat's the best I got," he replied, joining his wife's laughter.
"Come on, Detective King!" Amy laughed playfully. "Think crime."
"Floyd Adams?"
"Getting warmer. Here's a clue—where was I at lunchtime?"
"Dr. Jeffery Stubbs," Nick blurted, figuring it all out.
Amy nodded. "You win the prize!"
Nick hugged his wife again. He'd had enough of Dr. Stubbs and the Floyd Adams' murder for that matter. He wanted to relax. "I'll take my winnings now if you don't mind."
"You'll have to collect later," she laughed. "I met Dr. Stubbs' girlfriend."
"And?" Nick asked, knowing there was more.
"Well," Amy said sniffing, "she's about half his age."
"He's a wealthy man; they get to choose. What's her name?"
"Georgina Lovesey."
Nick's brow wrinkled. "That rings a bell."
"It should; she works at the Cherry Tree Towers Hotel."
"Patrick's place?"
"Yes."
Nick rubbed his chin. "Okay, honey, I'm lost. Help me out a little."
Amy laughed again, teasing her husband. "Detective King, while I was enjoying lunch this afternoon at the Bellowing Spoon with members of the museum board, Dr. Stubbs recounted his discovery of Floyd Adams."
"Funny, he hasn't given a formal statement to the police yet," said Nick bitterly. "Probably rehearsing the story he will tell us with his lawyer."
"You might be right there, Sherlock. He mentioned he was with his girlfriend the evening Floyd Adams was shot."
"Georgina Lovesey?"
"Yes."
"Did she confirm that?"
"She did, claimed they spent the evening together."
Nick let out a frustrated sigh. "That's a shame, would have been nice to nail the murder on the good doctor."
"Nick!"
"Sorry, just saying."
Amy continued. "But Georgina Lovesey wasn't with Dr. Stubbs when Floyd Adams was killed. She worked the late shift at the Cherry Tree Towers Hotel. I spoke with Patrick Crenshaw this afternoon, and he confirmed that."
"So where was Dr. Stubbs?"
Amy placed a hand on Nick's cheek. "Honey, you're the detective, you go figure."
Chapter 26