Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  “I feel eighty-five.”

  My phone started ringing again and I groaned. “Can you get that?”

  Chuck answered. “It’s Morty.”

  “Swell.” I rinsed my hair and went to my happy place. There was chocolate. Oh, so much chocolate.

  When I got out, Chuck was cleaning up Li Shou’s poop and said, “Morty’s coming to the celebration at Kronos. He’ll meet you there. He’s got info.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I wonder why he decided to go to Kronos.”

  Chuck kissed me and said, “It’s a mystery.”

  Kronos was packed. The crowd had spilled out of Aaron’s Star Trek-themed burger joint onto the sidewalk and into the street. Because Aaron and his business partner, Rodney, had the good sense to listen to my dad and add first responder memorabilia to the mix, police barriers had been put up, and traffic was directed around the partying cops and firefighters.

  “So O’Sullivan’s a huge deal to firefighters and EMTs?” I asked.

  Chuck put an arm around my waist and squeezed me through the door. “You know us, any excuse to throw it down.”

  “And you needed a win after Scott Frame,” I said.

  He kissed me on the cheek. “We’re all still smarting from that one.”

  “Mercy!” Cindy Amendola waved at me from the bar. She was the newbie crime scene tech that found some crucial evidence in Mom’s case. “Did Chuck tell you?”

  “That you got O’Sullivan?” I asked and we hugged.

  “Him, too.” She high-fived Chuck. “You rock, my friend.”

  “What else happened?” I asked.

  “I got promoted. I’m a homicide lead now. Can you believe it?”

  “Yes, I can. You should’ve gotten it after my mom.”

  “You’re sweet, but I was so new. It was my testimony on the Crane murder. Nailed that guy.”

  I bought Cindy a shot and a beer and we were quickly surrounded by familiar faces, Nazir, Sidney Wick, Ameche, and Parker. Barb Torrance, a beat cop with her eyes on a detective shield, elbowed her way over and pushed a metaphysical malt into my hands. “I had ‘em put a shot of rum in there,” she said. “You deserve it.”

  I thanked her and took a heavenly sip. Rum made my favorite better. I didn’t think that was possible. “Fantastic.”

  “Why do you need rum?” asked Chuck, his high forehead creasing.

  “It’s fine,” I said quickly.

  Chuck had gotten some shades of my dad after I’d escaped a pair of handcuffs to face off with Frame. He seemed to think he could stop me from doing stuff. I couldn’t stop myself so it didn’t seem likely.

  “She didn’t tell you,” laughed Sidney. “Your girl here tackled a nut job who rammed her clinic with a truck and then tried to set fire to it with a gas can.”

  Chuck sucked in a breath and held it. I took that as a bad sign.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Not a huge deal.”

  “Not a huge deal?” crowed Barb. “There were at least five dudes standing around picking their noses while Mercy brought her down.”

  “Channel Five says 50k worth of damage to the clinic,” said Nazir.

  “Truck’s totaled,” said Parker.

  They raised their glasses. “No civilian casualties!” They toasted and chugged.

  “Actually, Robert Babcock broke his collarbone,” I said.

  Barb clinked her glass on mine. “Firefighter. In the line of duty.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Sidney.

  They tossed back their shots and I got seriously buzzed from sipping my malt. I needed to eat, but before I could make my escape, Sidney dragged someone over.

  “Mercy, have you met Julia Jones yet?” he asked, bringing a brunette with thick glasses and a pained expression into our group.

  “No, I haven’t,” I said, extending my hand.

  Julia reluctantly took it and we had the shortest shake in history.

  “Thanks for the tissues,” I said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You gave Chuck tissues for me when my mom was in the hospital.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She stepped back and looked away. I guess that was enough about that.

  Someone yelled from across the room. “Texas is a go!”

  A thunderous cheer went up and glasses started clinking like crazy.

  Sidney held up his beer. “To the lethal injection!”

  Screams of approval went to deafening heights. I tugged on Chuck’s shirt. “Why are we toasting that of all things?”

  “Because O’Sullivan abducted and killed six of his victims in Texas. They’re extraditing him from Kansas and Kansas is all for it.”

  “That’s it for him then.”

  “Quick and painful, I hope.”

  I cringed.

  Chuck wrapped his arms around me, bending low to whisper in my ear, “It was slow and painful for his victims, Mercy. Don’t go bleeding heart on me now.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’ve just had enough of death for a good long while.”

  Uncle Morty bulldozed his way through a group of firefighters while both insulting and congratulating them in the same breath. “Hope you haven’t had enough of sex.”

  “Me, too,” said Chuck with a rakish grin.

  I shushed him and the cops all snickered, except Julia. She made a face like she smelled road kill and moved away, smoothing her standard-issue blue pants suit. If it weren’t for the hair, she could’ve been mistaken for a man from the back, but I guess that’s what she was going for. God knows why. I never wanted to be a man or look like one, not that I had a hope in hell of pulling it off if I did.

  Uncle Morty took me by the arm and steered me to a table, booting out a couple EMTs that were just taking up space. Chuck blended into the crowd and I reluctantly sat down.

  “Alright,” I said. “Let me have it.”

  He squeezed into the booth across from me. Life with Nikki wasn’t having the best effect on his waistline, but she’d taken care of other things much more essential like nose and ear hair. “Have what? I ain’t got nothing.”

  “You mentioned sex to me for the first time ever, and you’ve got a laptop, which means two things, information and crabbing.”

  “I don’t—”

  Nikki came through the crowd with a tray high above her head. She set it down on our table and kissed Uncle Morty on the top of his head. “Hi, sweetie. I brought you both double Worf burgers with Aaron’s latest concoction, a poutine with truffle and goat cheese curds. It’s not Greek, but it’ll do.” Nikki tucked a curl behind my ear like a mother. “Did you treat those scratches? You don’t want them to get infected.”

  “I boiled them and the rest of me,” I said.

  She sniffed. “Maybe do it again. Gas and stagnant water does like to stick around.”

  “Are you working here now?”

  Nikki was wearing a Kronos tee stretched tight across her bosom. The NCC-1701-E never looked so distorted. “Just while Aaron’s occupied. It’s all hands on deck. Got to go. Eat up. I think you’re looking a little thin.”

  I loved Nikki. People were usually eyeing my curves like they were a communicable disease. She made eating a double Worf burger feel good, even righteous, in the face of diet plans everywhere. I dug in and ignored Uncle Morty eyeing me behind his smudged glasses purchased who knows when. I assumed Nikki would get to them. They had tape and what looked like a glob of super glue holding them together.

  “What?” I asked with my mouth full. I was feeling good and didn’t care about the niceties.

  “You know this chick?”

  “The victim?”

  He snorted in the back of his throat. “Victim. Yeah, right.”

  I grabbed a fry, heavy with some sort of thick gravy and sniffed it. Herbs, cheese, butter, truffles. I could’ve taken a bath in that gravy. No more gas or pond scum, but people would want to sniff me so I’d rather smell bad. I ate the fry, savoring it and irritating Uncle Morty. It was a win-win.r />
  “Are you gonna ask me or what?”

  “Or what. I’ve had a long day. Tell me or don’t. I’m eating here.”

  He chewed on his lower lip and then opened the laptop. I knew he couldn’t resist, the big crank. He turned the screen toward me. “You know her?”

  I stuffed three fries in at once and pondered the picture. It was of an older woman, mom jeans, hair pulled back in a I-don’t-care-anymore ponytail, and not a bit of makeup. Not unattractive, just over the effort. “Looks vaguely familiar. Why?”

  “That’s her.” He said it in a way I’d never heard before. Uncle Morty was crabby about everyone and everything, except Nikki, but I’d never heard real judgement in his voice before.

  “Catherine Cabot? Can’t be. She’s thirty-two. That’s an exhausted, middle-aged mom of five.”

  “It’s her.”

  “Can’t be.”

  “Are you saying that I don’t know what I’m doing?” He glared at me.

  “No,” I said. “I guess she’s not what I had in my head. She’s Cabot’s kid. People like that like appearances and procedures.”

  He turned the laptop around. “Come over here.”

  “Why?”

  “Frickin’ do it.”

  I slid over to Uncle Morty’s side, something I would’ve avoided like STDs before Nikki. He always smelled musty with cigar stink and a hint of B.O. Now he had cologne and gyros on him. It was nice. What he showed me on the computer wasn’t.

  I slammed it shut. “Are you insane? What is that?”

  “That’s Catherine Cabot when she gives a crap.”

  I needed to wash my eyeballs. Some things you can’t unsee.

  “So she did some boudoir shots,” I said.

  “That ain’t no boudoir shot. Nikki did some for me and—”

  I punched his shoulder. “Too much information.”

  “Well, they ain’t. That’s porn and not no softcore either.”

  Gag.

  “Is that what was sent to her work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Gross. But there’s no reason to think that’s her,” I said. “You can’t really see her face.”

  “It’s her.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “A birthmark and stretch marks on her thighs.” He started to open the laptop, but I slammed it shut.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I went back to my side and started in on my burger. No wonder Big Steve didn’t tell me. This was going to be dirty with a capital D.

  Uncle Morty ate his burger but with no gusto. He was uncomfortable. He was a guy that looked like he’d be uncomfortable most of the time, but he wasn’t. Morton Van Der Hoof knew who he was and had no beef with it. Usually.

  “You don’t like her,” I said. “Why do you care?”

  “I been looking at her.”

  “I bet.”

  He slammed his beer on the table and said in his harshest tone, “Not like that. I been lookin’ at her Facebook, her Twitter, and her Snapchat. That first picture is Catherine Cabot to the people who know her.”

  “According to you, the second one is, too.”

  He leaned over the table and a wave of Worf burger came over me. “I been in her contacts, Facebook, email, everything that chick’s got. She didn’t send that pic to anyone on those lists.”

  I finished my malt and considered getting another one. Nikki did say I was looking thin. “Maybe they were just for her.”

  He gave me the stink eye.

  “I don’t know. I’m tired and Barb gave me rum. You know I can’t have hard liquor and stay conscious.”

  “Catherine Cabot didn’t send those photos to her own work. Somebody else did.”

  “She had an affair,” I said. “Wait. Pictures? How many?”

  “We got eight pics. They got messages.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “‘Your employee is a slut.’ ‘Fire her.’”

  “And all the pics are the same…stuff?”

  Uncle Morty’s upper lip twitched. “Variations on a theme.”

  “Why does this bother you so much? You’re not a prude.”

  “I ain’t, but this chick goes to her boyfriend’s birthday party looking like she just got done cleaning a toilet, but she dresses up like that for her lover. It’s disgusting.”

  “Nikki isn’t going to have an affair. She adores you.”

  He grumbled, but it was true. No one understood it. Maybe she liked a project. Morty was enough to keep her busy for years.

  “She does,” I said. “Look at the woman. I have never seen her without lipstick and foundation.”

  Uncle Morty relaxed. “Yeah, she takes good care of herself.” He gave me the stink eye. “I don’t.”

  It’s a trap.

  “You’re more an au naturalle kind of a guy.”

  “That means messy.”

  “Or comfortable. You’re comfortable.”

  “Catherine’s comfortable.”

  I don’t know what we’re talking about.

  “I guess she is,” I said.

  “I don’t like suits.”

  “Okay.” I’d seen him wear a suit at my graduations. I hoped to never see that outfit again. Mom was pretty sure he bought it at the Salvation Army. It was orangish brown with the smell of old man. Still, he did better than my dad who didn’t bother to show up and didn’t call. Somebody got murdered no doubt.

  “I ain’t gonna wear a suit,” he said.

  “Who wants you to wear a suit?”

  “That Catherine chick don’t care how she looks.”

  “So?”

  “Do I look like I don’t care?” He was giving me the stink eye so hard I could feel it in my spine.

  Yes!

  “No. You have a style of sorts.”

  “Do you think Nikki thinks I don’t give a crap?” he asked.

  Yes!

  “No. She obviously likes your style.”

  And she’s going to change it.

  He scratched the greying stubble on his chin. “Ya think.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Can we get back to Catherine?”

  “That chick. Go see what she has to say for herself. She’s got a boyfriend. Seems like an okay guy.”

  “I can’t.” I needed another malt pronto.

  “Why the fuck not? You interview mass murderers for fun.” He raised his voice enough that half the room looked at us, including Chuck, but not the new detective, Julia, who was gazing at my boyfriend in a rather clinical way. Sizing up the competition or checking out the jawline? I couldn’t tell which. She was best described as blank.

  “Lower your voice.” I leaned across the table. “For the record, interviewing Blankenship has never once been fun.”

  “Then you can go see this chick and ask who she’s been sending pictures of her vag to.”

  Ew.

  “I told you,” I whispered through gritted teeth. “I can’t. This investigation is on the down low.”

  Uncle Morty grumbled and tore into his burger like it asked him to wear a suit.

  “Can’t you find out who sent the pictures?” I asked, giving him the big eyes.

  “I could. Maybe.”

  “So…”

  “I can’t.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “Nikki won’t like it,” he said, glancing around in case she heard.

  “Why?”

  “You want Chuck investigating vagina pictures?”

  I looked at the ceiling. “Will you stop?”

  “I am stopping. You can talk to that—”

  “Don’t call her a chick.”

  “Woman.”

  “I can’t.”

  Uncle Morty stuffed the rest of his burger in his mouth. “I ain’t helping that woman. You’re on your own.”

  I sucked down the dregs of my metaphysical malt and stood up. “Don’t worry about it.” I waved to Chuck and stomped off, squeezing through a crowd of firefighters who were toasting to no major blazes
for seventy-two hours.

  Uncle Morty chased me to the door, knocking people out of his way and cursing non-stop.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled after he nabbed me outside.

  “Going home.”

  “Drop this crap. That woman deserves what she gets.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said.

  “Who do you think is sending those pictures?”

  “I haven’t got the faintest idea.”

  He pulled me through the street party until we got clear and could hear without yelling. “Her frickin’ lover or worse.”

  “What’s worse?” I wrenched my arm out of his grasp.

  “Her lover’s wife. How about that?”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been rooting around in people’s lives for a flipping eon. This ain’t good. She ain’t good. Somebody’s hurt and they want to hurt her back. Let ‘em. She made her bed. She can fuckin’ lie in it. I’m sick of people doing this crap to each other and then boohooing when they get caught. Screw them, Mercy. You got enough on your plate.”

  He wasn’t wrong and I didn’t care about Catherine. But I made a deal with Big Steve and he was right. When you can help people, you should. Shawna and the practice were being sued. I could help so I would.

  “I’m doing it with or without you. I promised.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “You want a reason? A good reason?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The Columbia Clinic’s being sued by that nut job who rammed it, and Big Steve’s going to take care of it for free. How’s that for a reason?”

  “Son of a bitch.” Uncle Morty stalked off into the crowd. I didn’t know what he’d decided and it didn’t matter. I’d hire Spidermonkey to help me. He was equal to Uncle Morty in the hacking department. Plus, he didn’t yell, curse, or have tremendous gas.

  I limped off toward home to take yet another shower, hoping to sleep for twelve hours.

  Chapter Five

  I DIDN’T SLEEP for twelve hours. I didn’t sleep for six. I fell into bed at midnight after cleaning up an apartment full of shredded printer paper. Skanky was not happy. Getting extra food had instilled a sense of entitlement that would be hard to break. He watched me bag the paper and every time I looked at him, he’d start cleaning his butt. Message received.