by A W Hartoin
Hove Reality was closed by the time we got there and I was forced to call Uncle Morty.
“What took you so long?”
“For what?”
“I got that information.”
“Oh, yeah. Where do the Hove’s live?”
“Who gives a crap about them? I got the real skinny,” said Uncle Morty.
I boosted Aunt Miriam in the truck and leaned on the door. “You know who shot Calabasas and Catherine?”
“Hell, no. I got her accounts.”
“Scintillating,” I said. “How about you give me the address and we talk accounts on the way?”
“Or you can listen to me and ditch the truck,” he said.
“Why would I ditch my truck?”
“Because you pissed off that girl detective and she’s trying to put an APB out on you and your truck.”
“For what?”
“Reckless driving.”
“I wasn’t driving,” I said.
“And that’s why there’s no APB. If she arrests Aaron, she might as well give herself a blanket party,” he said with a chuckle.
“If it was me, all bets would be off then?”
“That’s about the size of it. Everyone knows you know something and you’re not available to help Julia.”
“Julia can suck it.”
“A well-liked businessman and a soon-to-be judge’s daughter got gunned down and there you are. Again. It’s pissing people off.”
“You want me to stop?” I asked.
“I want ya to stay out of sight and seem like you’re cooperating.”
“Without actually cooperating.”
“Now you’re getting it,” he said. “I got the address, but you gotta ditch the truck until that Julia creature gets off you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Uncle Morty gave me the address and I told Aaron. We sped off toward a posh suburb and Aunt Miriam got out her pocket bible, reading under her breath. “Be merciful to me, my God.”
Prayer is distracting, if you’re not the one doing it, not that I’m much of a prayer. Usually, I pray right before I do something I shouldn’t. “So,” I said, turning away and looking out the window. “What’s up with Catherine’s accounts?”
“Account. She only has one,” he said.
“Really. Is that normal?”
“Nope. She usually has three or four going, depending on what the client wants.”
Uncle Morty explained that Catherine was an expert at irregularities, not always criminal. Sometimes she searched out computer glitches or peculiar human errors that caused huge losses. Catherine could see through the minutiae to pick out the tiniest of details and she did it quickly. That skill didn’t match who she was in her personal life. I would’ve thought she had a messy mind, but Uncle Morty described a person who was anything but messy.
“When did she get this account?” I asked.
“A week, no, four days ago. Tuesday.”
“The photos predate that by weeks.”
He knew and he didn’t care. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. It was a puzzle and Morty dearly loved a puzzle. And he loved talking about puzzles.
“I have to go,” I said.
“They conspire, they lurk,” said Aunt Miriam.
“What the hell was that?” asked Uncle Morty.
“Aunt Miriam’s praying,” I said.
“Why? What’d you do?”
“She’s not praying for me.”
She jabbed me in the kidney with her ultra-sharp pointed elbow and continued, “Because of their wickedness.”
“Okay. It could be for me,” I said. “We’re almost there. I have to work up a game plan. I’ll call you later.”
“You’re a fly by the seat of your pants girl. Listen to this,” he said.
Catherine had been taken off all her other accounts to concentrate on one big one, International Bank of the Midwest. They were seeing losses on their debit card operation, but couldn’t see how it was happening. It was thought that a glitch was causing losses on particular purchases, but there weren’t any patterns to speak of. A penny here. Five cents there. A charge would come in for a lunch at say five fifty-three, but five fifty-six would be taken out of the customer’s account. It wasn’t until a sharp-eyed businessman was adding up his salesmen’s travel expenses and the books weren’t balancing that someone started asking questions.
It didn’t sound like a lot to me, but Uncle Morty explained that there were umpteen debit card purchases an hour. Over the course of a day, thousands of dollars were disappearing and they estimated it had been going on for a while. Catherine was charged with figuring out when it started and how.
“It’s all about the pattern,” said Uncle Morty.
“Has she found one?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not in her files. They have hardcore security. I ain’t in yet.”
“So get in.”
“Go to the friggin’ hospital and ask Catherine. My book ain’t gonna write itself.”
“A little busy here. I’ve got disgruntled lovers and wives to interview.”
“Screw that. We got a felony fraud case here. Big money. High stakes.”
Aaron parked in the driveway of a faux Tudor house that bordered on a mansion and Aunt Miriam said, “For you have delivered me from death.”
“Is that old lady talking about death?” asked Uncle Morty.
“I don’t know. I have to go.”
Another jab to the kidney. It was a good thing I wasn’t on blood thinners.
“Stop that,” I said over my shoulder.
It didn’t stop her. Nothing stops her.
“That I may walk before God in the light of life.” Aunt Miriam gave me another jab. “Get out. I haven’t got all day.”
I jumped out to avoid another jab and said, “Later, Uncle Morty.”
“Wait. You gotta ask that Catherine about this.”
“Do you really think she figured it out already? She’s been on that for like fifteen minutes. How long do her investigations usually take?”
He grumbled.
“Well?” I asked.
“Weeks to months. One took over a year, but that was international wire fraud and involved money laundering.”
“So she’ll have nothing yet.”
“You don’t think this is interesting?”
“I do, but I don’t see how it’s related, unless…” My mind started clicking through what Uncle Morty said. Big money. High stakes. People had been known to kill for twenty bucks in change.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Follow the money,” I said. “Where’s it going?”
“Nowhere, according to the bank.”
“So the bank is getting the extra funds?”
“No.”
“Then who is?” I asked.
Aunt Miriam got tired of waiting and started marching for the door. I grabbed her arm and avoided the cane whipping around to take me out at the knees.
Uncle Morty was typing furiously. “They ain’t got nothing on the money.”
“You’re saying the vendor doesn’t get the extra money?”
“No.”
“But it’s taken out of the account?”
“Yeah, but it ain’t going nowhere,” he said.
“It’s just gone?”
He typed some more. “That’s what the bank thinks.”
“You don’t buy that?” I asked.
“Midwest thinks it’s a computer glitch, but that don’t feel right to me.”
“So you take a look. Nobody’s better at computers than you.” A little flattery goes a long way with a hacker of Uncle Morty’s caliber, but he just grumbled.
“Who’d they hire to check out the glitch theory?” I took a gamble. “Morris Security?”
More typing. “Son of a bitch. They did hire those half-witted turds. I’m on it.” He hung up on me and I chased down Aaron, who was already at the front door and standing so c
lose to it his nose was touching the knocker.
I pulled him back. “Don’t do that. They’ll think you’re weird.” I said it like there was a chance they wouldn’t think he was weird. “You can wait in the truck.”
“He’s not waiting in the truck,” said Aunt Miriam, reaching out for the doorbell. I pushed her hand down just in time.
“How about you wait in the truck?” I put myself between her and the door.
“I’m helping you.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
She tried to dart around me and almost made it I’m sorry to say. “You’re not good and this is serious. People nearly died.”
“I know. I was there,” I said. “Look. This is delicate. There’s been some marital stuff.”
“Infidelity. I assumed that, Mercy.”
“You can’t help with that.”
“I’ve heard it all. Out of the way.”
Aaron tried to juke me and I threw out a hand. Those two were the last people I wanted around for that interview. Talk about not getting it.
“You aren’t going in there,” I said. “I’ve got to soothe a betrayed wife and a broken-hearted betrayer to get some alibis. I’m not going to be popular.”
“I am,” said Aunt Miriam. “I’ll hear their confessions.”
What the crap?
“Nuns don’t hear confession. That’s not a thing,” I said.
“It’s an unofficial thing. Your father would call it a work-around.”
“What are they working around? The seal of the confessional?”
“Yes. It can be easier to talk to a woman than a man.” She scowled. “No matter what Rome thinks about it. Men don’t know everything.”
“I don’t know if they’re Catholic. Can I just do this on my own?”
“No. They will want to talk to me.” She went for the bell and I nearly knocked her down while getting in the way.
“I’ll watch a movie.”
She squinted at me. “Which movie?”
It was going to be bad, but I was desperate. Aunt Miriam inexplicably loved horror and one of the joys of her life was making me watch it with her.
“I don’t know. Winchester?”
She wrinkled her nose.
“It’s got Helen Mirren and a story. Please, Aunt Miriam,” I begged.
“You want to watch this movie?”
Want is a bit strong.
“Yes, I want to,” I said.
“Well, if you want to.”
I sighed. Thank goodness.
She tapped Aaron with her cane and he darted to the knocker, dropping it with a surprisingly loud thunk.
“No! I haven’t thought of what to say.”
“I have,” said Aunt Miriam.
“But we just agreed.”
She gave me the stink eye. “You agreed that you wanted to watch the movie. That is not a proper bribe.”
Crap on a cracker.
“But I didn’t—”
“I will get their confessions and their alibis, if they have them. Then you will verify. That is how this will work.”
“You can’t hear confessions,” I said, flicking her veil. “Hello? Nun.”
Aaron dropped the knocker again.
“I’ve heard confessions and kept confidences that you wouldn’t believe,” said Aunt Miriam.
“Name one,” I said.
“Cardinal Bernard Law.”
“Ew,” I said.
“That was a doozy.”
“You have to tell the cops what you know then,” I said.
She glared up at me. “You’re one to talk.”
“But he told you about pedophile priests.”
“You don’t know what he told me and you never will,” she said.
Unbelievable.
The door opened and a young boy looked out at us. His face puzzled as he looked at the oddest collection of people he’d see all year unless you counted Halloween in a few days.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m here to see your parents. Are they in?”
Aunt Miriam edged in front of me. “I’m here to see them.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“I am.”
“Not. We had a deal.”
“There was no deal. You weren’t paying attention.”
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed and was rewarded by a stinging crack of the cane to my bruised hips. I screamed and went down with Aaron barely catching me before I hit the bricks. “Are you insane? That really hurt.” I yanked down the waist of my jeans to show her my black and blue bruise.
There was the slightest flicker of concern before she said, “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“How about don’t hit people?”
The kid turned around and dashed back in the house, yelling, “Mom! Dad!”
I dashed inside, but Aaron followed and I only closed the door on his chest.
“Why?” I asked. “Why?”
“I’m helping,” he said.
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“No.”
I gave up and waited with my worst posse to date. Joe Hove stuck his head out a door down the long hall and paled at the sight of me. Or maybe it wasn’t me. Aunt Miriam had been known to scare people pale.
Joe ran down the hall with his hands up hissing, “You can’t be here. You can’t. You can’t.”
“Mr. Hove,” said Aunt Miriam.
“Sorry, Sister.” He whipped her around and had her out the door before I could blink.
“Joe,” I said. “I have to—”
“No, you don’t.” He pushed me to the threshold, but I was digging in my heels. “There’s been a shooting.”
“It’s nothing to do with me,” he whispered, giving me a shove.
“Joe!” yelled a woman. Joe slammed the door, but Aaron stuck his foot in and it bounced off, revealing Patty Hove coming down the hall, carrying a wooden spoon.
“I need to talk to you!” I called out.
Joe tried to slam the door again, but I was already going past him. Patty’s face hardened when she got a full view of me.
“You’re not her,” she said. “Joe, I swear to God if you. I will—”
Patty marched down the hall, wielding that spoon like a mace and Joe panicked, pushing me frantically.
“No, no,” he said. “She’s nobody. I swear.”
Aunt Miriam stepped quickly past us. “I’m Sister Miriam. I’m here to give you counsel and comfort at this time of crisis.”
I thought putting it as a crisis was a bit much, but Patty’s face screwed up tight. In a flash, Aunt Miriam was with her, pulling her into her bony bosom.
“You have to leave,” said Joe as Aaron trotted down the hall, presumably toward the kitchen.
“That is so not happening,” I said, glancing up the stairs where three boys were peering down at us, intently listening. The teenager, Jordan, glared at me. He wasn’t surprised at all. “We should talk privately.”
Reluctantly, Joe took us to the kitchen and sitting room combo, where he closed the doors, and looked as though he was considering barring them with furniture in case anyone else showed up. Then he pressed a button on the intercom system and told his boys to play video games until dinner. They agreed, but they didn’t sound as thrilled about the carte blanche game playing as they should’ve.
When Joe saw that Aunt Miriam had Patty on the love seat, where she was crying so hard she was gulping like a trout out of water, he tried to leave, but I blocked him.
“There now,” said Aunt Miriam. “Let it out and let it go.”
“I can’t let it go,” wailed Patty.
“You can. Others have.”
I’d never heard Aunt Miriam speak so softly in my life. She was hard to the point of porcelain to me and the only weakness I’d seen in her was after Mom’s stroke. That took the wind out of her, but it didn’t last long before she was terrifying candy stripers and causing no end of trouble.
Joe watched them for a m
inute and went for the back door.
“Stop!” yelled Aunt Miriam. “You will reap what you have sown.”
He stopped and he reaped. Wow did that guy reap. Every grievance for eighteen years and then he got to talk and it wasn’t much better.
Aaron was in the kitchen rummaging around, but they didn’t care. In the way of chocolate, he only found some semi-sweet morsels and Hersey’s cocoa powder. They weren’t within shouting distance of his standards, but the next thing I knew he’d whipped up a kind of pudding in a blender with hot milk and amaretto. He poured it into eight mugs and stuck them in the freezer. Then he dug out an Instant Pot and frozen meat. Aaron didn’t approve of frozen meat. I didn’t know that because he told me. He came over once and threw out all my meat before making vegetarian samosas. I’d thought it was okay. I’d just dig it out when he left. It was well-wrapped and frozen, but the little weirdo took the bag with him when he left. When I protested, he gave me a hundred bucks and the name of a good butcher. I haven’t frozen meat since. I can’t afford it.
“What are you making?”
“Plov,” he said.
Patty shuddered and blew her nose. “What’s a plov?”
Aaron didn’t answer. He was too busy working.
“Are you using frozen meat? I can’t believe it.”
“They need food,” he said.
I guess I didn’t need food when he threw mine away. With anyone else, I’d take that as an insult, but Aaron didn’t insult people. I doubt he knew how. Aaron defrosted the meat in the pressure cooker, cubed and seared it in record time. Patty came over, red-faced and clearly exhausted, to watch. Aaron put her to work chopping onions and julienning carrots.
Patty concentrated on her chopping, which made her flow with tears again. When she started on the carrots, she said quietly, “I have an alibi for the shooting.”
I got out my phone and waited.
“I was showing a house in Maryland Heights.”
“Who were you with?”
She hesitated.
“I have to confirm and you can bet the cops will, if they trace her activities,” I said.
“Can you not tell them why you want to know?” she asked.
“No problem. I’ll make something up. I excel at that.”
Patty pushed her cutting board over to Aaron, and he inspected her carrots. Denied. She had to make the slivers smaller.
“Do you know what a plov is?” she asked.
